Cincere Tempestas
by Mattwho81
Summary: Struggling to keep the Imperium alive in the dark future the Storm Heralds fight the dread forces of Chaos only to find themselves caught in a deadly vice. With foes arising all sides can they find a way to survive? This story is a sequel to my previous story Domus Discordia. This story is a crossover with the works of Aaron Johnstone.
1. Chapter 1

**Storm Heralds Reading List**

 **Book 1** _Maledicti Venator, Serrati Stellas, Tenebris Resurget, Finis Fide, In Tergum Cultro, Omni Honore, Carpe Posterum, Vacuus Cymba, Noctem Oritur_

 **Book 2** _Umbram Ignis, Ancra Mortis, Fame Cimex, Crux Lapis, Saeva Abyssi._

 **Book 3** _Captum Ante, Venenum Filios, Locum Ignotum, Domus Discordia_

 **Book 4** _Cincere Tempestas_

 **Cincere Tempestas Chapter 1**

 _Extract from Imperial Crusades of the new age: Vol I._

 _With the rise of the Lord Guilliman the people of Terra were galvanised as never before. This was in no doubt thanks to the millennia of veneration bestowed upon the memories of the Primarchs which meant none would gainsay Guilliman's command, at least to his face. With startling speed the masses dedicated themselves to the support of his military campaigns, creating new armies and fleets in addition to those that had already pledged their fealty._

 _Guilliman's genius for logistics and organisation was staggering and within one solar year he had turned a gaggle of mismatched armies and bitterly feuding Chapters into a supreme machine of war. The core of his armies were the newly introduced Primaris Marines, a most controversial revelation and one that required Guilliman's breath-taking diplomatic skills to prevent a rift forming within his own ranks._

 _Led by the Lord Commander the Indomitus Crusade surged out of the Solar System, engaging in brutal campaigns of liberation among the core worlds surrounding Terra. Many bitter foes arose and battles as fierce as any of those celebrated by later historians were waged. Yet even at these tentative stages Guilliman was already planning ahead, laying the foundations of campaigns that might not begin for years or even decades. To achieve this his first actions were to dispatch independent trail-blazing armies, comprised mostly of newly commissioned Primaris Chapters. These he sent out to secure key worlds and strategic positions._

 _Several of these were the primary warp routes between Segmentum Solar and the outlying regions. Most notoriously of all must surely be the Nachmund Gauntlet, leading to what was now called Imperium Nihilus. Yet equally important were the Whirling Gyre leading to Segmentum Ultima, the Vale of Sorrows leading to Segmentum Pacificus and the Saint Karyl Trail leading to Segmentum Tempestus._

The knife was black and even the wan light it glistened wickedly. He could see markings upon the length of it, eldritch runes that glowed with an infernal light. There was something fundamentally wrong about those runes, they twisted and writhed before the eye, seeming to squirm as if alive. Looking upon that blade gave rise to feelings of nausea, sickening dread and the disturbing sensation that it was looking back. It was evil, it was corrupted and it was coming right at his face.

Captain Toran hastily ducked back, letting the knife flash past an inch before his helm. Even through the ceramite he could feel it burning, making his face and eyes sting, an impossible sensation since one of those eyes was a glowing augmetic. Toran ducked and weaved, dodging blow after blow and as he did so his golden rank chains jangled and his red cloak billowed around his legs. Again Toran dodged the knife but this time he kicked out, landing his ceramite boot squarely in his opponent's midriff.

The enemy staggered off-balance and Toran was able to look at him properly. This foe was clad in Ceramite too but not like his own. The armour was covered in fell runes and scriptures of damnation, almost obscuring the gore-red plate with its hideous iconography. Black-iron chains hung from the enemy's belt, capped with shrunken heads and from his helm arose two twisted horns that almost met at their point. The left pauldron bore the visage of a Daemon's head, set within writhing flames but it was no mere painting. The flames moved constantly as if real and the skull chattered silently in a jeering taunt. This was the most hideous and damned of foes, reviled and feared in equal measure across the stars. A Chaos Marine of the earliest Legion to embrace damnation, the most fanatical and deluded of all Traitors: a Word Bearer.

The Word Bearer regained his balance and hissed as he stepped to the right, looking for an opening. Yet Toran now had room to manoeuvre and brought up his relic blade between them. It was an ancient electro-magnetic longsword, the Sword of Thiel, the most revered relic of the Storm Herald's Chapter. It had tasted Word Bearer blood before and Toran was determined that it would do so again today.

The visage of the Word Bearer lit a raging fire in Toran's hearts, an instinctive loathing instilled by his hypno-indoctrination. The Word Bearers were the most reviled enemies of his blood-line, a legacy of hatred inherited from the XIIIth Legion, at the inception of the Imperium. Yet even without the conditioned response, Toran would have hated this foe. The Heretic was a willing slave to damnation and a Traitor unto the Emperor and all humanity. The cur's very existence was an insult to everything Toran fought for and he yearned to end this filth with every fibre of his being.

The Word Bearer's voice was mashed, like he had fangs under his helm, as he roared, "The merest drop of blood on my knife and the Dark Gods will eat your soul!"

Toran shouted back, "Not if i kill you first!" as he threw himself forward.

The pair flew at each other, blades flashing to seek out the kill. The accursed knife flashed at his helm once more but now Toran had the advantage of reach. He expertly deflected the blow then followed through to ram the point of his sword into his enemy's breastplate. Ceramite parted, organs ruptured and reinforced ribs shattered as the sword plunged in and out the other side, but the Word Bearer did not fall.

Toran felt the knife score over his back armour, parting ceramite like it was tissue paper, one inch deeper and it would have touched his flesh. Toran pushed harder, driving his sword forward but the Word Bearer remained standing as he yelled, "For the glory of Lorgar and Chaos!"

"Why won't you die?!" Toran snarled between clenched teeth.

As the knife rose up once more Toran shifted his grip on his sword and adjusted his weight. The knife began its murderous descent but Toran pulled hard to the right, ripping his sword laterally out of the Traitor's chest in a shower of gore, almost carving him in two. The Word Bearer attempted one last feeble swipe but then finally collapsed, his entrails steaming and bubbling with black fluids.

Toran pulled back his sword and fluttered the power field to clean off turgid blood as he looked around. He was standing upon a balcony, looking out over a wide concourse. It was a round space, ringed with many levels that rose out of the scope of even his vision. On every level were miles upon miles of shelves, lined with dusty tomes and scrolls, interspersed with marble statues of wizened scholars and long dead Lord-Provosts. There were data-slates and plastek info-sheets, clays tablets and woven tapestries, maps and data-crystals, Hololithic tapes and laser-etched discs. Every form of data-storage one could imagine and more. This was a place of knowledge and understanding, a reverent place where the wisdom of the ages could be kept and preserved. It was a place designed for quiet contemplation and study, yet today it was a battleground.

Everywhere Toran looked blue-clad Imperial Space Marines grappled with gore-red foes, Storm Heralds against Word Bearers, Transhuman against Transhuman. They were not alone either, for at their feet ragged, mutant cultists grappled with bleeding PDF troopers, but their heaving mass was a mere sideshow in this clash of giants. The two sides tore into each other, blasting and gouging with wild abandon.

Assault Marines swung roaring Chainswords, Tactical Marines fired bolters at point blank range while from on high Scout-Novice snipers picked off cultist demagogues and champions. Caught in the crossfire whole shelves of tomes were obliterated, crystals were smashed and scrolls burned. Priceless, irreplaceable knowledge was going up in flames but nobody cared. That the enemy died was all that mattered.

Captain Toran assessed the battle with a glance and saw the warriors of his Third Company fighting with full fury. From above he spied Librarian Arvael on the ground floor, swinging his telekinetic Force-Morningstar to break any cultist who came near him. He cleared a space in the melee only to be confronted by a lone Word Bearer. Arvael raised an open palm and shoved forward, generating a telekinetic barrage that sent whole shelves tumbling like a row of dominoes. Yet the Word Bearer was unmoved, the parchments and chains bound to his armour merely crashing back and forward as he stood stock still.

The Word Bearer laughed mockingly, "The Dark Gods protect me!"

"Let's see them protect you from this," Arvael growled as he made a grasping gesture and pulled his hand back.

The Word Bearer paused, looking for the pending attack but seeing nothing. Then too late he looked up and saw a marble statue of some fat potentate, dropping right at him from five stories up. The statue slammed down and crushed the Traitor under its shattering bulk, pinning his broken body long enough for Arvael to dash over and shatter his skull with a blow from the Morningstar.

One level down from Toran the giant Chaplain Furion was battling a horde of cultists upon a broad flight of steps. He looked like a black mote in an ocean of filthy browns as scores of twisted degenerates threw themselves at him. Furion met them with a Storm Bolter in his left hand and a sacred Crozius in his right, clubbing and blasting them with mighty blows. Yet for every one he slew five more took their place, piling upon him in wave upon wave of twisted flesh. Furion was drowning in foes yet just as it seemed he must surely fall he thrust his Crozius high and cried, "Fear the light of the Emperor!"

A staggering flash of energy erupted from the shining eagle-head of his weapon, a searing brilliance that cast shadows far and wide. This was Storm-Heart, an ancient relic of the Chapter. Like all Crozius' it could unleash its concussive energy in one massive blast but uniquely this weapon could also discharge its might in a stuttering strobe-effect of blinding light and deafening noise. The effect was similar to a shock grenade, causing autosenses to blink and blinding anyone not so protected. The cultists screamed and fell down, clawing at their faces as their sight was robbed from them and their ears went numb. Furion wasted not a moment to annihilate them, crushing skulls and snapping spines with the weight of his Mark III armour.

Elsewhere the bloodthirsty Brother Jediah was lashing out with a Fractal-edged short sword, while to his left Brother Persion swung a red-hot Friction axe in one augmetic arm. They duelled a pair of Word Bearers who bore vicious flensing knives, giving and receiving the most terrible blows. As they fought Persion yelled, "I thought you said this would be easy!"

Jediah fended off a knife blow with one hand while thrusting forward with the other as he shouted back, "This is the easy part, just wait till we get to the hard bit!"

Suddenly a shining flash announced the arrival of Company Champion Novak, with his golden helm and ablative pauldrons. The Champion danced into the fray, his power sword a smear of silver light as he bounded between the duelling Astartes. Two quick slashes and both Traitors collapsed, missing their heads, as Novak quipped, "No need to thank me!"

Jediah tetchily snapped, "He was mine!"

Novak merely laughed as he ran into the next fight calling, "Try to keep up, oh venerable elder!"

Across the way from Toran, Apothecary Memnos was wrestling with a Word Bearer, his white armour smeared with blood and his forearms wrapped in the Chains of Shame. The Traitor was fast and strong but Memnos knew Astartes physiology like no other and his knife flashed to tear sinews and sever ligaments. Counter blows scored his plate but piece by piece Memnos dismantled his foe, as thoroughly as he would on the dissection table. The Traitor flopped helplessly as the Apothecary took him apart and could barely raise an arm as Memnos finally rammed the knife into an eye lens.

All this had occurred in barely a few seconds and Toran judged that the battle was turning the Storm Herald's way. With three squads and the support of their officers the loyalists were driving back their foes. The Word Bearers were outnumbered by two to one and they could not endure long, yet something was off. Toran was accustomed to Traitors beating hasty retreats in the face of overwhelming might, preferring to save their own skins rather than accept death but these Chaos Marines were giving no ground. They stood and fought to the last, seemingly willing to die for no real purpose.

Toran gritted his teeth and ran towards the nearest fight, determined to kill every last one of these filth if necessary. He saw a Chaos Marine leading a mob of cultists to beat down a Storm Herald, Assault Sergeant Lorath. The Sergeant whipped and lashed with his twin lightning claws, killing enemies left and right but he was surrounded on all sides and was about to be overwhelmed.

Toran gathered himself and leapt into the fight crying, "For Terra and the Living Primarch!" His mass bowled over a half-dozen cultists and his sword flashed as it ended their lives. Instantly Lorath spun about and slammed back to back with the Captain and the pair began to wreak carnage. Toran hacked and slashed at the wall of flesh, relentlessly driving the point of his sword into chests and throats but then he saw the Word Bearer barrelling towards him.

Toran's sword was tangled in the mass of cultists but he released one hand to grab a spare combat knife from his belt. Yet Lorath beat him to it, lunging with both lightning claws to impale the foe through the hearts. Lorath laughed, "See the weak scum fall!" as the Traitor sank into death and Toran redoubled his efforts, slaughtering cultists in droves.

The battle was going well but then from the ground floor came the thunder of heavy steps. Toran twisted about and saw five more blue-clad warriors entering the fray, with Thunder Hammers and Lightning claws flashing. They were insanely broad and heavy, clad in armour thick enough to stop a tank round. They were Assault Terminators and they marched to war with inexorable momentum.

Sergeant Lorath raised his voice and cried, "Ha, late as usual!"

Over the vox Terminator Sergeant Orath called back, "There was a whole army outside to deal with, my kill-count has grown immeasurably."

"Damnation, you're not besting my score this time!" Lorath roared throwing himself into the fray with abandon.

Toran paused to retrieve his spare knife then followed, calling out, "Forward Storm Heralds and give no quarter. There's plenty more where these scum came from!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 2**

The dreaming spires of Oriella reached for the sky, a forest of towers and domes that filled the horizon. They soared majestically over the landscape, a testament to the might and wisdom of the Imperium. The spires had been erected over millennia and it showed in their design. There were brutal High Gothic style skyscrapers, besides enormous domes that dated back to the Age of Apostasy. Minarets in the fashions of the Redemption Crusades era grew in clumps, while boulevards were crowned with triumphal arches celebrating the Macharian Conquests. They were a visual history of the late-era Imperium, a celebration and a memorial to the achievements of Mankind, they were beautiful.

They were burning.

Around the bases of the spires fires raged, blazing conflagrations that ran down the streets and spewed filthy black smoke into the sky. Bodies of men and mutants piled up everywhere, still throttling each other even in death. Burned out wrecks of Leman Russ tanks and Chimeras lay pointing their weapons at bizarre stalk-tanks and flayer-wheels covered in tanned skin. Explosions arose everywhere as more and more carcasses were added to the piles, making them grow ever bigger. The noise of Lasfire rang in the streets, matched by the snap of autoguns and the heavier bark of bolters. Men screamed in anger and agony as their lives were cut short, displaying feats of valour and cowardice in equal measure.

Toran could see it all from where he was standing, situated on a small hillock sited in a decorative public park. His augmetic eye fed him thermal readings and ranging trajectories but he didn't need such assistance, a lifetime of war let him assess the situation at a glance. The fighting was intense and it was coming ever nearer.

Suddenly the voice of Librarian Arvael broke into his thoughts saying, "This is a tragedy."

Toran sighed and turned around, seeing his Command squad waiting for him. They were arrayed for battle, armour still steaming with hot blood. Toran knew they were impatient to be back with the line squads at the front, he was too, but it was unavoidable.

Toran drew in a breath and said, "It is necessary."

Arvael shook his head and said, "Sucaris was the shining jewel of the Saint Karyl Trail, a whole planet dedicated to the conservation of Imperial culture. The seven Collegium-cities took immense pride in diligently preserving the history, art and learning of the Imperium, without deviation, invention or innovation. Scholars would travel for hundreds of light years to study here, to learn the secrets of the ages. Now it burns."

Besides him Furion said, "It is unfortunate, many say Tectum is the heart of local Imperial power and Sacellum is the spiritual soul but none can doubt Sucaris was its rational mind. We mourn the devastation, but what other choice did we have?"

Toran agreed, "We don't have the numbers to match the Word Bearers in open battle, not until the Imperial Navy delivers our reinforcements. Luring the foe into urban warfare was our only way to slow their advance."

"We gave them a drubbing and no mistake!" Novak suddenly interjected.

"Don't act the fool," Furion rebuked him, "We beat back a mere probe, a scouting party. The true attack has yet to begin."

Novak sounded impatient as he said, "Why haven't they come in force? All they've sent out is cultist dregs and a few handlers."

"The ways of Chaos are madness," Toran growled in disgust, "Be grateful though, it gives us time to prepare. Speaking of which we need to coordinate our squads with the First-Sheriff."

With that Toran moved out and they followed, descending the hillock and entering a large armed camp. Here soldiers lay around in filthy fatigues, many were wounded, or dazed, sitting forlornly with thousand yard stares and they clung to their Lasguns as if they were lifelines. Their eyes held incipit madness and many were so shell-shocked that they didn't even look up as the Astartes passed. They looked like men waiting to die, each one knowing this was only a reprieve before they were sent back to the front.

As a pair of Vulture gunships screamed overhead Furion said, "These men fought bravely."

Arvael didn't sound so convinced as he said, "It hasn't made much difference, the Word Bearers tore them to shreds until we arrived."

Toran said, "We will do what we can but we desperately need the multitudes of the Imperial Guard. Once they arrive we will be free to commence an offensive right into the heart of the enemy."

Novak mused, "The part that bothers me is why the Word Bearers chased us into this meat grinder? Why not just circumvent Oriella and hit the northern Collegium-cities?"

Toran agreed, "Their tactics make no sense, we ambushed their advance parties with ease. We had the position, the numbers and the firepower but they refused to fall back. Chaos Marines typically withdraw when overwhelmed but these fought to the last."

Furion interjected, "We are accustomed to fighting more mercurial enemies. This part of the galaxy usually attracts only greedy reaver lords: opportunists, deceivers, hedonists and pirates. Word Bearers are not like the Night Lords or the Alpha Legion, they hold fanatically to their debased creed. Do not let previous experience lead you into false assumptions, this scum is more than willing to die."

Toran nodded in understanding and adjusted a few stratagems in his mind as they walked. Soon they came to the edge of the camp, where a river two miles broad cut through the heart of the city. There was a noticeable difference between the east and the west bank. Here on the east were dreaming spires and Librarium-archives galore. On the far side were tenant slums, crammed between industrial machinery, transit links and filthy smoke-spewing factories. The divide between rich and poor could not have been clearer, the haughty elite enjoying their ivory towers of learning, the filthy masses crammed cheek to jowl where their masters did not have to look upon them.

Linking the two sides was a single suspension bridge, broad and strong enough for a Titan to walk over. It was covered in defensive emplacements, anti-air batteries and artillery and besides it rested a large pavilion. Toran strode into that tent, passing various vox-operators chattering at their bulky sets and logisticians arguing over map tables. Toran was reassured by the familiar sight of an Imperial army at work and ignored the junior officers as he strode to the middle of the tent.

Here he found two mortals, both aged and venerable but in entirely different ways. One of them was a sharp-faced woman, with white hair, the violet eyes of a Cadian born and a military uniform bedecked in medals. There was a rough edge to the woman, an impression that she had earned each and every one of those medals the hard way and was willing to use her fists to prove it. She looked like an old warhorse, ready for one last fight, chomping at the bit. Her name was Heredia Karsa, former General of the Imperial Guard and now First-Sheriff of the Sucaris PDF. And aside from her tendency to drift off topic Toran rather admired her.

The other could not have been more different, he wore long robes, grey and humble. His fingers were covered in quill ink, his white hair was long and unbound and he boasted a tangled beard that stretched to his waist. His age hung upon him like a heavy coat but his eyes were sharp and his long hair concealed augmetic implants, data-storage devices and enhanced info-cogitators. This was Orvius, Lord-Provost of the Collegia and Governor of Sucaris.

Toran walked straight up to them in time to hear Karsa shout, "For the last time you're not going!"

Toran stopped between them and barked, "What's this?!"

Orvius looked up, seemingly unimpressed by the irritated Astartes looming over him and snapped, "Finally, tell this harridan she has no right to stop me!"

Toran wasn't amused by the welcome and snapped, "Start making sense, right now."

Frostily Karsa spat, "This lunatic wants to send out rescue parties into the contested zones. He wants to save some books, not people, books!"

Orvius snarled angrily, "It's important, we have to save the knowledge of the ages. Too much is being lost!"

Toran shook his head and said, "Lord-Provost this is a warzone and I have no tolerance for civilians running around my battlefield. We can't spare a single man to escort you."

"I'll go without you then," Orvius declared, "Our world's sole purpose is to preserve the wisdom of our forebearers. We carefully cultivated a lack of innovation and invention; there hasn't been an original idea here for millennia! Now it all burns, I have to save something, anything. I volunteer to go myself, I will take the risk."

At this point Furion spoke up, "Lord-Provost I don't think you understand that we are facing a moral threat here. Even if we win then you know the Inquisition will not hesitate to commence a purge. You are privileged enough to know of the existence of the archenemy but the common man is not. Any civilian you send east, anybody who lays eyes upon the archenemy, will be executed. The Imperium cannot risk corruption spreading. "

"I suppose you know all about that," Orvius snarled viciously.

Toran almost winced for that struck deep. The Storm Heralds were notorious for their practice of preaching to conquered worlds. Internment, mass-conversions, wide-scale executions and flagellations of the doubting were the hallmarks of their campaigns. Toran had always found such practices abhorrent, he had shed blood to put an end to such disgraces and he was determined to wipe away such stains upon their honour.

Toran glared at Orvius but checked his ire as he calmly said, "Lord-Provost the Storm Heralds are here to save your world and its people. We are not interested in what you do afterwards."

Orvius looked suspicious and asked, "There will be no purges, preaching or book-burnings?"

Toran declared, "You will find our new Chapter Master has little patience for such frivolities. If you keep your civilians to the west of the river we will fight to the last to preserve your world's people and culture. You have my word on this. Now let us address the situation, what has happened out there?"

Karsa sucked in a loud breath and Toran fought the urge to sigh for the old woman did love her own voice, "Well, ever since the Chaos cruiser Cruenta Caede shattered our orbital defences it's been nothing but retreats and defeats. We lost the southern Collegium-cities of Brasenor, Petahaus and Pembroka in the first two weeks. We would have lost the rest too if the scum hadn't stopped for a fortnight to sacrifice their prisoners. We thought we could use the time to reinforce the line but it was pointless, they smashed us anyway. I don't think we would have made it back to Oriella if you hadn't dropped from the sky to rescue us."

Toran steered her back onto point saying, "And currently?"

Karsa replied, "Currently we're stalling their general advance to the east side of the river, it's heavy fighting but the young lads are holding their own. Yet it's only the dregs so far, once they bring in the Traitor Marines… well all I can say is the Guard better hurry up with those damn reinforcements."

"Not admitting defeat are you?" Furion inquired pointedly.

Karsa glared back and snapped, "I spent a century and a half campaigning in the Cadian Shock Troops. I fought the archenemy a half-dozen times before I retired to take up this post. I outlived my homeworld and I will damned before I lose another. Make no mistake I will die for the Emperor but I have no illusions, without reinforcements that's probably what's going to happen."

Furion declared, "Not so as long as one Storm Herald yet stands!"

Toran concurred, "Oriella has not fallen yet and the northern Collegium-cities of Ballious, Magdaren and Lanchare are untouched. We will hold this city, to our last drop of blood."

At that point Orvius asked, "Couldn't your warship drop some more magma-bombs?"

Toran and Karsa shared an exasperated glance, the obliviousness of civilians to the realities of void-warfare never seemed to abate. Toran bit his tongue and diplomatically replied, "The Thunderchild is busy duelling with the Cruenta Caeda. She's a tough ship but the enemy has a Hades class heavy cruiser, this war will be over before that duel finishes and furthermore…"

Suddenly a vox-operator leapt up shouting, "Contact, contact! Orbital surveyors are picking up a new contact! Reading one Capital ship and escorts, all flying Imperial recognition pennants."

"Reinforcements, in the nick of time!" Toran declared elatedly, "Make ready everybody, this is the hour when the tide turns!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 3**

The screams and prayers of the damned rang far and wide, carrying on the wind to fill the whole world. It was torn from the mouths of blessed martyrs, hundreds upon hundreds of them hanging in black iron cages in long rows. Each cage was marked with sigils of the Dark Pantheon, ancient marks designed to attract the attention of Neverborn and they glowed as the metal was heated by braziers burning beneath them. The mortals within those cages wept, they begged and they pleaded, some even prayed to their uncaring Corpse-God but they received no answer. Only those who embraced the Dark Gods, those who came to love their pain, could see that this was no punishment but the first step towards enlightenment.

Standing below the hanging cages was a lone Space Marine. He cut a brutal figure in his dark red armour, the colour of gore and lined with silver. His armour was etched with the flowing script of the lost paradise Colchis, each line praising Chaos and the majesty of the Dark Gods. Spikes adorned the elbows and knees of his plate and his left hand was the swollen bulk of a Power Fist. His face was pale, with sharpened teeth and a short top-knot was bound high upon his skull. He was looking upwards but he derived no pleasure from what he saw. His name was Kasarox and he was not happy.

Kasarox looked upon the weeping masses and felt disgust whelm up within him. These pathetic crying mortals were typical of the filthy degenerates the Imperium bred: weak, blind and ignorant. It was appalling how low humanity had sunk under the uncaring tyranny of the False Emperor, how the masses let themselves be downtrodden for the sake of a corpse-god. Kasarox understood that only through the powers of Chaos could humanity be elevated, only with the blessings of the Dark Pantheon could a man break the chains of morality and transcend his flaws.

Kasarox didn't understand why these mortals the Word Bearers had gathered up were bemoaning their lot. Didn't they understand the blessing they were being given, the chance to join a sacred union with Chaos and feel the hallowed touch of the Warp? In a way Kasarox envied them, for their flesh would serve as fertile soil for the seeds of blessed corruption, they would nourish the gods and so become divine.

The thought of that made Kasarox's hands clench angrily, for he had not been so sanctified. His body was still merely transhuman, missing any sign of divine favour. He had no marks of Chaos Gifts, no tentacles, extra eyes, swollen muscles or terrifying aura to show the favour of the Gods. No matter how many rituals he partook in, how many sacrifices he offered up, he had not attracted any favour from above. He had spent centuries seeking to commune with the divine and yet the gods scorned him.

Filled with disgust Kasarox turned and marched away from the weeping masses, striding into the camp of the Word Bearers. It was a massive encampment set within the ruins of the city they were besieging. It was filled with cultists and Daemon engines, all protected from above by a sorcerous miasma that held back aerial or orbital attack. He marched relentlessly and the masses parted before him, the mutant scum making way for their better. Kasarox felt his anger growing, for even the least of them bore the marks of Chaos, twisted limbs, too many eyes and mouths of needle teeth were everywhere.

Moving among their number he saw the towering giants of his fellow Word Bearers, each and every one bearing the icon of the Crooked Path Chapter. They saw him coming and bowed, but slowly and mockingly, making their scorn clear. Kasarox envied and hated them for he knew they looked down upon him and behind his back called him 'the Unhallowed'. He was the least blessed of all the Word Bearers, yet in what must have been some cosmic jest of the pantheon he had been elevated over them. For he was the Coryphaus, the tactical war-leader and strategos, under the ruling Dark Apostle.

Kasarox saw his brethren's eyes upon him and his rage burned, what wouldn't he give for Chaos to bless him even once. If only the Dark Gods would give him but a single gift he could transcend his flaws, but in his hearts he knew they wouldn't, for he was unworthy. The sceptical mind that let him strategize was in conflict with his burning faith and so he could neither be one thing or the other. Kasarox saw a mutant move too slowly out of his way and he swung his fist in a fit of spite, breaking the scum's neck in a heartbeat. The crowd shrank back in fear but one voice laughed loudly and called out, "Did his face offend you?"

Kasarox looked about and saw another Word Bearer emerge, this one as different to him as night to day. His armour was plain and bore only humble markings and yet he shimmered with power. His ceramite seemed to move as raw muscle would and random bones jutted through it. His feet ended in clawed talons and his faceplate had a fanged maw that moved in time to his words. He radiated power for he was one of those blessed to be united with a Neverborn and his name was Raruma the Mocker.

Kasarox snarled, "What do you want, Mocker?"

Raruma's faceplate leered and his words echoed with another's voice he said, "Why, only to walk with you Unhallowed."

Kasarox grunted an assent, for Raruma was the only soul honest enough to use his title to his face and the pair strode on together. Kasarox glanced at his companion, taking in the bulging daemonic form and felt jealousy and respect warring within him. Raruma was fortunate indeed to host an emissary of the Dark Gods but it seemed to have made him snide and cynical, he was always the first to mock and doubt and so deserved his title. Kasarox didn't understand why one as unfaithful as this would be blessed by Chaos and he didn't understand why another Word Bearer hadn't already killed Raruma for his relentless insults.

Raruma looked amused as his dual voices inquired, "How's the war going?"

Kasarox snarled, "As the Gods will."

"Really?" Raruma leered with a scornful tone, "Then it must have been someone else who called for us to move faster. To not waste time on sacrifices, to drive on to victory before those corpse-worshipping fools arrived."

Kasarox felt his ire rising for he had indeed said that and been rebuked publicly. He snarled, "Dark Apostle Abulaz communed with the Gods and foresaw that the time was not right."

Raruma scoffed, "Omens and portents, always the same old story. If we hadn't paused for some ritual slaughter, this planet would be ours already. We could have crushed the mortal fools and thrown back Guilliman's misbegotten mongrels with ease. Instead we get a bloody nose and then chase them into this warren, where they can keep us tied up for months."

Kasarox's anger burned hot and he barked, "Do you question the will of Abulaz?! He who is favoured of Chaos, who made the Ultramarines weep and cried victory over the great triumph at Calth!"

Raruma looked at him for a long moment and then said softly, "Of course, sometimes I forget you weren't there, you weren't even born. You weren't at Calth to see the... triumph."

Kasarox exhaled and said, "What difference does it make? Abulaz tells me of the glorious slaughter, how we massacred the pompous Ultramarines as they ran from us and broke the back of a Legion. He will lead us to victory here again."

"Will he?" Raruma mused, "You don't question his strategies at all?"

"It is not my place to question Abulaz," Kasarox hissed, "I am unworthy to lick his boots. Now shut up, if he hears you speak like this you will die, painfully and slowly."

Indeed the pair had approached the edge of the camp where two more mighty lords were standing over a bubbling cauldron. The first one was a brutal and swollen warrior, fit to burst out of his Ceramite with his muscles. He had vicious edges to his armour and his chest bore the marks of the Skull Throne. He was Vulak, blessed of Khorne, First Acolyte and Karasrox's most hated rival.

The other was a towering monster, surrounded by a halo of dark energy. His head was shaved bald and covered in runic script that carried on down the outside of his plate. He bore a long cloak of flayed skin and chained to his waist was the Book of Lorgar. He carried a long-handled mace, currently set head down with his hand idly resting upon it, a Black Crozius. This was Abulaz, Dark Apostle, the butcher of Calth and Lord of the Crooked Path Chapter.

Kasarox fell to his knees before his lord, pressing his head to the dirt and Raruma copied him, self-preservation overriding his cynicism for once. Abulaz didn't acknowledge them but gazed out into the city as he remarked, "This city is an abomination."

Kasaroz held silent as Vulak growled, "Libraries and archives everywhere and barely a handful of cathedrals to be seen."

Idly Abulaz stated, "Imperial worlds are lost to the worship of a Corpse but at least they can plead ignorance. What excuse does this world have? They claim to worship knowledge, to be secular, in so much as any Imperial world can claim such a thing. It cannot stand; we must enlighten them to the glory of Chaos."

Vulak growled, "Indeed mighty lord, the faithful grow in number even now."

Kasarox coughed slightly and Abulaz finally deigned to notice him saying, "Rise and report."

Kasarox rose up and wiped the mud from his forehead as he said, "Holy one, the city burns but the Throne-lackeys still resist. I implore you to set free the Crooked Path, unleash the Daemon engines and let us finish this."

Abulaz distractedly said, "No, hold here."

Kasarox blurted out, "But to give the enemy the initiative…"

"He said no!" Vulak snapped, "Know your place worm!"

Kasarox bit down on his tongue, he had almost questioned his mighty lord. It was not his place to question, only obey, if he was fit to question he would have been blessed by Chaos. His sceptical mind screamed that they were making mistakes but his hearts demanded he trust to his faith. Once more Kasarox was reminded of his unworthiness and he lowered his head.

Meanwhile Abulaz waved a hand over the bubbling cauldron, causing colours to swirl as he proclaimed, "The Gods whisper to me of more ships arriving. The Corpse-God's minions approach even now."

"More of them," Kasarox gasped, "We must attack immediately; crush the forces here already before they grow in number!"

"No," Abulaz commanded, "We let them come to us, draw them out before destroying them."

Kasarox bit down his response, his urge to argue that letting the enemy attack was a mistake. Abulaz was mighty and hollowed, he had the favour of the Pantheon, he must see more than the Coryphaus could understand. Raruma however snarled, "More of Guilliman's mongrel sons?"

Suddenly Abulaz blurred, his Dark Crozius swinging out to catch the possessed marine in the chest. Raruma was sent sprawling, oily blood leaking from a crater in his breastplate as the Dark Apostle roared, "Never say that name in my presence!"

Hastily Raruma prostrated himself, humbled by his Master as he stammered, "Yes my Lord… of course my Lord."

Kasarox understood the Dark Apostle's rage all too well; Guilliman was the most hated foe of the Word Bearers, the reviled enemy of all Lorgar's sons. None were more despised or deplored. Abulaz oft waxed on about how the Lord of Ultramar had been beaten at Calth and broken in the wars that followed and yet the blind fool had refused to die. Now he was back again and the news had made each and every one of the Crooked Path scream outrage at the uncaring sky. He insulted all they believed and his sons were no better than he, they all deserved to die.

Abulaz roared, "Go make yourselves useful and pray I am in a merciful mood when next I see you."

Hastily the pair withdrew and in his mind Kasarox was already preparing new stratagems, when the sons of Guilliman came they would not find him unready. In his hearts Kasasrox was looking forward to this: a chance to humiliate the corpse-worshippers was too good to miss.


	4. Chapter 4

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 4**

The bolter kicked in Toran's grip, a sensation as familiar to him as breathing. A squeeze of his finger and the Master-crafted weapon spat a fat bolt-round, spinning gently on a contrail of exhaust gases. The miniature rocket flew straight and true to strike a cultist and a single second later it detonated, spraying gory chunks everywhere. Yet Toran didn't waste time watching, he had already moved onto the next target and the next and the next.

The oncoming cultists were cut down by his rapid bursts of fire, his enhanced coordination making each and every shot a kill, but that did not stop them. They came up the street in a ragged wave, madness burning in their eyes and the stigmata of Chaos upon their faces. Methodically Toran emptied his clip but did not reach for another, there was not enough time.

Seconds before the cultists engaged he mag-clamped his bolter to his side and drew his sword. The first cultist was met with its shining point and run right through, the next was met with a kick from his boot that staved in its ribcage and the third with a backhanded blow that snapped a neck. The rest of the cultists piled in, serrated daggers scoring at his plate but he was unconcerned. Toran moved through their numbers like a grox through a wheat-field, breaking, tearing and ending lives effortlessly. In a few seconds he had killed a score of cultists single-handed and the courage of the rest broke, they turned and ran from his blade, chased by flanking fire from surrounding squads.

Toran assessed the situation and called, "Sergeant Matheus, don't waste fire on those dregs, concentrate on that elevated gun post in the clock tower. Sergeant Lorath, that pillbox isn't going to demolish itself."

"On it," Lorath voxed, "Deploying melta-bombs… now."

Further down the street Toran saw the Assault Marines standing upon the roof of a squat ferrocrete bunker that was spewing heavy bolter fire in all directions. The Marines stepped back a second before the actinic glow of melta-fire arose, burning through the roof to blast an entrance. The Assault Marines swiftly dropped within, led by Sergeant Lorath and a second later the firing was replaced with the screams of the dying.

Toran took a moment to look around, surveying the battle unfolding in the narrow streets. His squads were fighting ferociously, advancing deeper into the city and leaving a trail of blood in their wake. They were clearing ground for the coming reinforcements and making good progress, too good in fact. The Word Bearers were nowhere to be seen, which was bizarre, they should be coming en-masse right now... their tactics made no sense at all.

Currently Toran's force was circling around a large building with an immense dome for a roof. He didn't know what purpose it served but now it was the home of battle. The fighting had been hard and at close quarters, a blood-soaked meat grinder of death and destruction. The perfect environment for the Adeptus Astartes. Toran had three squads of Initiates with him, along with his command squad and the Terminators, a force that could break cities. Yet this was just one of the three prongs of his offensive, his Third Company splitting up to divide and conquer. The northern thrust was being led by an ambitious Sergeant who was likely to be promoted to the First Company soon and the southern by Chaplain Furion.

That last part still irked Toran, for it never felt right. Furion was his strong right arm but as Chaplain he was also a senior officer. Over the last few years Furion had proved an able leader and an inspirational Marine but Toran still missed having him by his side. Nevertheless the last few years had forced them to adapt, the galaxy was aflame and the Storm Heralds were hard pressed to defend the worlds within their protectorates, especially given how understrength they were.

Three years earlier a terrible civil war had wracked the Chapter, leaving them undermanned and overstretched. Since then Third Company had been engaged in a blitzkrieg campaign of liberations, rebellion suppressions and bloody reprisals. Yet the tide of threats continued to rise and no matter how many foes they slew more enemies just kept coming. This latest war was just the latest in blood-soaked litany but not one of the Storm Heralds bemoaned their lot, to fight and die was their sole reason for existing.

Suddenly Librarian Arvael called out, "Captain, hostile tank, closing from the north!"

Toran reacted instantly, even though he couldn't see the threat. Arvael was a telekine with a gift for scrying, if he said it was there then Toran could take that as gospel. The Captain called out, "Sergeant Zeax, bring your lascannons to bear!"

Over the vox Zeax growled, "I can't see anything, maybe the wretched Librarian's finally gone mad."

"Fire to the north, wide angle spread," Toran ordered briskly.

From a tower, shorn off half-way up its length, a quartet of Lascannon beams shot out. They soared off into the distance but nothing happened. Arvael cried, "Raise your aim, one point five degrees. Left: zero point two degrees!"

"I don't take orders from you," Zeax snarled.

"Just do it!" Toran snapped.

Once more the Lascannons fired, shooting off into the distance and this time there was a sharp flash and the distant rumble of a tank brewing up. Toran sighed in relief as Arvael said, "Target destroyed, all threats neutralised."

Quiet finally spread over the streets as Toran called, "All squads fall in and prepare to advance."

As the squads assembled Toran was left to fume, for precious seconds had been wasted in argument. It was an unfortunate fact that during the civil war the Librarians had stood apart, taking no sides. Many still harboured resented and more than few Brothers held a serious grudge against the whole Librarian order. Arvael did his best to overlook it but the grudge was eroding combat efficiency. Toran had done his best to repair the cracks but now was not the time for reprimands; he'd have a quiet word with Zeax later.

In complete contrast Apothecary Memnos was helping a wounded Initiate to his feet. The Apothecaries had been thoroughly disgraced in the civil war, forever condemned to wear the Chains of Shame. Memnos however had given faultless service since and so ardently had he dedicated himself to his Brother's care that most Initiates seemed to be forgetting why he was so dishonoured. Memnos couldn't though, that was why his Chain bore the names of every soul who had died in the Apothecaries sick experiments.

Toran heard Lorath approaching, calling out, "That brings me up to ninety-seven kills!"

But then a voice came from the domed building, it was Sergeant Orath and he was leading his Terminators back into the open as he declaring, "Cultists don't count!"

"Yes they do!" Lorath countered, "A kill is a kill."

"Not a worthy one," Orath bantered back, "Only Traitor Marines count!"

"You can't weasel out this time," Lorath exclaimed jovially, "Face it, I've got you this time!"

Orath's mirth was evident as he responded, "Sorry, but in that case. I am on a hundred and one."

"Damnation!" Lorath spat in mock anger.

Toran shook his head, Lorath and Orath, both Veteran and brutal warriors, equal in zeal and wrath. Toran had been hesitant to accept Orath's Terminators at first; the arrogant warrior could easily have torn apart a healing Brotherhood. Yet unexpectedly he had fit right in, his friendly rivalry with the Assault Sergeant masking a tight bond. The pair were ever egging each other on, driving both their squads to undreamt heights of fervour in their quest to exceed their rivals. While the rest of the Company found it highly amusing.

Toran was about to order his force on to the next zone when Brother Persion suddenly put one had to his helm. Toran looked at him and said, "What is it?"

Persion glanced over and the communication specialist said, "Captain, the Thunderchild is on the vox. That ship we detected, the reinforcements, it is not of the Imperial Navy."

Toran blinked in surprise and asked, "Then who is it?"

Persion answered , "Auspex reads it as an Astartes Battle-barge… a big one."

"The Thunderlord?" Toran asked, "She's not supposed to be anywhere near here."

"No," Persion explained, "It's not a Storm Herald's ship, it's transmitting an identifier we don't recognise. Definitely Astartes but not from any Chapter in our records."

Toran was baffled, their records were extensive and vast, for any Chapter to be unknown was highly irregular. He mused, "Another Chapter, operating this close to our homeworld without our knowledge, it can't be."

"But it is," Persion said, "It's already dropping strike craft and drop-pods."

Toran looked up, searching out the contrails of re-entry. No human eye could have seen anything at this range but his Transhuman vision and autosenses saw the tell-tale pinpricks of dropping orbital craft. His mind instantly calculated their trajectories and saw they were deploying for combat, right into the heart of the war zone. Arvael spoke up to say, "More Traitors?"

Toran shook his head and said, "Trajectories are all wrong, if they were hostile they would hit our rear. These newcomers are headed right for the Word Bearers, they're here to fight the Traitors not join them."

"Should we investigate?" Persion asked.

Toran thought about it and said, "We have to continue the attack but we need to find out what's going on too. Sergeant Matheus, take command here. I will go and investigate myself, a Captain's rank will be respected, whoever these newcomers are."

Several helms turned to glance at Orath, who as a First Company Sergeant might take offence at being passed over but the Terminator didn't seem to care. Orath was a ferocious warrior but he had little concern for the wider war or the well-being of other Marines, a leader of men he was not. Matheus gathered the squads up while Toran led his Command squad towards the point he predicted the newcomers would touch down.

As they walked Arvael spoke up saying, "Captain, these Marines look… odd. There's something different about them."

Toran glanced to the side and saw Arvael's psychic hood was glowing; the Librarian was scrying the intruders. Toran thought about it and inquired, "Can you tell me what they are here for."

Arvael shook his head and said, "It doesn't work like that, I see only what is not what will be... but I do have a hypothesis."

"Well don't keep us waiting," Persion interjected.

Arvael responded, "The fact that we don't have their ident on records suggests that this Chapter must be either truly obscure or completely new."

"The new Founding," Toran said, "The one the Astropaths speak of."

Thoughtfully Persion mused, "There's been a lot of odd chatter about them. Talk of them not just being new Chapters but a new type of Astartes. I wonder what they're doing here?"

The Captain saw a contrail shooting downwards and remarked, "Let's go find out."

A moment later a drop pod slammed into the ground a few streets over, causing an earthquake that made loose bricks fall like rain. A dust cloud arose but Toran was unconcerned, his autosenses cutting through it with ease. Soon they approached the landing site and his thermal vision described power armoured individuals moving in the murk. These newcomers were keenly alert for Toran saw their silhouettes snap about to bring up weapons and he yelled, "Hold fire, we are loyal to the Throne!"

From the swirling dust a deep sonorous voice called, "Halt and identify!"

Toran paused and called, "I am Third Captain Toran of the Storm Heralds Chapter."

The voice snapped back, "Leave now, this is our warzone!"

Toran blinked in surprise and called, "This world lays within the Storm Herald's protectorates, by deploying without contacting us you are acting in defiance of tradition!"

"We act under the authority of the Lord Commander of the Imperium," the voice called, "Do not question us!"

Toran could feel this going wrong and entreated, "Cousin, I do not wish to fight you but I will if I must. Can we not talk face to face as honourable warriors? You haven't even told me your name."

Silence reigned for a moment and then from the dust stepped a tall warrior in Apothecary's white. He was towering figure, standing head and shoulders over the Storm Heralds and he declared boldly, "I am Elikos, ordained Practici of the Ashen Knights!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 5**

In the dusty street tension filled the air, a heavy aura that made a Toran's trigger finger itch. The dust between them started to settle, raining down upon the ground like a fine mist. From the murk emerged more warriors, each a match in height for the Apothecary and bearing elongated bolters. The two groups stood at opposite ends of the road, not quite pointing their weapons at each other but that could quickly change.

Toran looked at this strange Apothecary, so tall he loomed over the Storm Heralds and called out, "We should talk."

Elikos paused and called back, "We cannot dawdle, we have objectives to reach."

Toran kept his hands visible, well away from his weapons as he replied, "My Chapter is operating in this theatre. If we blunder about without co-ordination we will end up shooting at each other. We will both fail our missions."

Elikos retorted, "Worry not, you won't slow us down."

There was something strange in the way he said that, not snide or condescending but there was an inherent arrogance to the Marine, a casual assumption that his warriors were innately superior. It was like the way Initiates talked to Scout-Novices, not harsh but knowing there were tasks they were not ready for. Toran didn't care for it at all yet bit down his first response and decided to pull rank.

"I am a Captain," Toran called, "Does your Chapter have no regard for the chain of command?"

Now that gave pause and there were a few moments of furious clicking as the newcomers talked on their vox, then Elikos said, "These Intercessors can waste no more time here, but I will meet with you."

The strange warriors set off, heading into the city and Toran began walking up the street to meet Elikos half-way. As they closed Toran looked over the departing warrior's plate and was most bemused. Their armour was jet black and shining steel, with strange protuberances and extra plates laid over the joints. To Toran these Marines looked overly tall; the least among them would be able to look Furion squarely in the eye.

There was something wrong with their gear, it was all non-standard and modified, missing the seals and sanctification markings of the Cult Mechanicus. They also lacked the signs of respect and fidelity that could only come from generations of warriors tending lovingly to their gear, over centuries of devoted partnership. The sight of such wanton invention and disrespect made Toran grit his teeth; did these warriors care nothing for the sanctity of their Machine Spirits?

Their weapons looked like someone had taken poor helpless bolters and stretched them, resulting in a weapon that was far too long and cumbersome. Toran estimated they would have increased range and muzzle velocity but he also knew that when these warriors engaged in tunnel fighting or a boarding action, they would quickly discover how useless long guns are in tight confines. They were identically armed, bearing no special or heavy weapons at all. A blithely overconfident configuration, Toran reckoned, one that was liable to cost them the first time something did not go to plan.

Their armour was bare and unadorned, lacking in the tapestry of laurels that every Astartes acquired over a lifetime. These warriors had no litany of deeds, no purity seals or campaign badges. Declarations to friends of a warrior's stalwart character and to his foes that they faced a deadly servant of the Emperor. To Toran's eye these Ashen Knights looked like novices on their first deployment, a blank parchment waiting to be written upon. They gave the impression that they had yet to taste the true rigours of battle, endure the fires of war or quench their spirits with the waters of victory. They looked raw and inexperienced, untempered, unhoned and callow in spirit.

An Astartes' honour badges also served as a form of instant visual identification in the fog of battle. Every Astartes knew his squadmate's heraldry intimately and could tell them apart at a glance. These warriors however were strangely uniform; seeming to have all the distinctiveness of Mechanicus battle-automata, and the personalities to match. In fact the only sign he could see that these warriors were not mindless automatons were small reliquaries, hanging on their belts.

"So these are the new Primaris," Novak remarked over a closed vox-link, "I am not impressed."

"I don't know," Persion muttered, "They do look like big fellows."

"Do not let outwards appearance fool you," Jediah growled, "Strength comes from zeal, determination and the fire in the heart. These Primaris can have all the genetic tricks they like, but it will avail them not if their spirits are weak."

At last they came together and Toran looked upon the Apothecary, having to crane his head slightly to look him in the eye. Toran refused to let that cow him and went on the offensive saying, "Explain why your Chapter did not greet us in accordance with tradition."

Elikos sniffed and replied, "Our Lord-Marshall has no need to bow before decrepit traditions, we are here and we deployed. Why waste time with tired old rituals?"

Gasps rang over the vox-link at the blatant disregard for tradition, yet Toran noted the tone of Elikos' voice. This Apothecary did not seem to mean any offence; his Chapter was new, perhaps they had yet to learn proper respect. Toran drew in a breath and explained, "Those rituals exist for a reason. We have hundreds of heavily armed warriors engaged in the field. Shooting and fighting in the heat of combat, without higher co-ordination we may well end up attacking each other. Is your Chapter Master willing to risk fighting a war on two fronts?"

Elikos froze for a second then said, "The God-Emperor weeps when His sons fight each other. It would indeed be a most unwelcome outcome, let me contact my Lord-Marshall and seek orders."

The Primaris Apothecary went quiet as he consulted his vox and then Apothecary Memnos hissed over their closed link, "Look at him, it's not just their gear that's been modified, their gene-seed has been changed too. Unsanctioned modification to the sacred gene-seed, it is an abomination."

Toran's eye flashed to Memnos' Chains of Shame and he instantly realised how personal this issue would be. Toran hastily overrode him, "Do not say anything to cause offence, not with the Traitor filth breathing down our necks. We will need to assess the threat these Primaris represent before I start shooting at potential allies."

Quiet fell for a moment and then Elikos spoke up to say, "Lord-Marshall Achilles wishes to speak to you in person. I am to escort you to our forward base."

Toran wasn't pleased at having to divert but saw it was necessary and said, "Give me a moment to inform my Company and then I will meet with this Achilles."

Elikos nodded and waited as Toran opened his vox and contacted each force commander. He swiftly informed them of the developments and told them to steer clear of these Ashen Knights until the situation was resolved. He also made it clear Chaplain Furion was in charge until he got back and finished off with a note to be wary and on guard; he didn't trust these Primaris yet. Finally the group set off, following Elikos towards the outskirts of the city. As they walked Toran looked at the Ashen Knight and probed, "Tell me of your Chapter."

Elikos sounded proud and as they walked he elaborated, "We are the Ashen Knights, a new breed of Astartes for a new age. We were crafted by the great genius Belisarius Cawl from the blood of Dorn, but not included in the general ranks of the Indomitus Crusade. It is a great honour that we were cut from whole cloth, made an independent Chapter right from the start and tasked to fight independently. The Lord Commander granted us the great ship Iconoclast as our fortress-barge and sent us out to tear down all those worlds that oppose the rule of the God-Emperor. We have earned great acclaim already; six entire worlds have been saved from idolatry since we were released from our stasis tubes."

"Six campaigns, that's it?!" Jediah gasped over the closed link, "Thrones' sake, our Scout-Novices have more combat experience than these whelps!"

Toran hastily covered by asking aloud, "How many Companies did you bring?"

"Companies?" Elikos snorted in amusement, "We are not confined by such outdated and moribund precepts, the God-Emperor never desired such stagnation. We model ourselves on the Black Templars, a much more effective and robust system than the archaic prescriptions of the Codex Astartes."

Toran felt his ire rise now and let slip, "You disparage the Codex?!"

Elikos sounded almost amused as he said, "The Primarch himself disparages it, he is shocked and dismayed that so little tactical innovation has occurred in his absence. He has commenced a pogrom of revisions and updates to the decrepit tactical dogma of yesteryear; he calls it the Codex Imperialis. The Primarch says there must be an end to mindless obedience and unthinking adherence to nonsensical orders."

Toran couldn't have been more shocked if the Apothecary had said that Guilliman had declared himself Emperor. The Primarch had written the Codex and Toran had respected it all his life, true he wasn't a mindless follower and had innovated rather frequently but only as an offshoot from its precepts. The idea of rewriting it entirely rocked him to the core.

Thankfully he was saved from making a rude comment as broad gunship flew overhead, shaking the buildings with the roar of its engines. Novak stared upwards and spat, "Warp Hells, what is that thing?"

"Twin-troop bays," Arvael interjected, "It resembles a Corvus Blackstar but much bigger and more heavily armed."

Proudly Elikos explained, "A prototype Overlord gunship, designed to replace those workhorse Thunderhawks. They're not standard issue yet, but the Ashen Knights have been chosen by Belisarius Cawl himself to field-test his latest inventions."

Toran felt like he was tumbling into a great pit: changing doctrines, modifying gene-seed, new machines, it was an insult to ten thousand years of tradition. Yet a part of him felt strange at thinking thus: he was accustomed to being the radical one, the innovator but what he was seeing made him feel like the most entrenched traditionalist in the galaxy. His shock wasn't over yet though.

Suddenly the group emerged from among the crumbling buildings to find themselves confronted by host of warriors busily erecting a base. Here at last was something familiar, the standard pattern of Astartes bases unchanged in layout or function. Yet the warrior's units were most strange and Toran didn't recognise them at all. There were Primaris with elongated bolters, mixed with squads all bearing plasma rifles, bulky warriors in what looked like miniature Centurion armour or bearing swollen jump packs and slovenly warriors in lighter plate and skull-masks.

Elikos led them towards the base and waved off the guards. He pointed out the various units proudly saying, "Intercessors, Hellblasters, Aggressors, Inceptors and Reivers, all the latest innovations."

Toran didn't know where to begin with such blatant, unashamed reforms but Novak spoke up to say, "What is that meant to be?!"

Toran looked over and beheld a strange tank, hovering over the ground without tracks. He blurted out in shock, "It looks like someone cross-bred a Rhino with a Land Speeder and jammed a Predator on top for good measure."

"Repulsor troop carrier," Elikos boasted proudly, "The ultimate expression of Martian arts."

"How many guns do you think it needs?" Persion gasped, "All that and troops too, how do you fit any ammo inside?!"

Jediah agreed questioning, "Are Land Raiders not strong enough for you?"

Now Elikos did pause and he bashfully said, "The Lord Commander… doesn't issue Primaris armies with Land Raiders."

"Why not?" asked Arvael in a deceptively innocent tone.

"We're…" Elikos stammered, "We're not sure... nobody dares to challenge him on the matter."

Novak scoffed, "What was that talk about ending mindless obedience and unthinking adherence to nonsensical orders?"

Elikos merely put his head down and stormed off causing Persion to remark, "These Primaris have absolutely no sense of humour."

Novak commented, "Anyone else catch that talk of the God-Emperor? Haven't we had enough of worship already?"

Jediah agreed, "We've only just put a stop to that nonsense in our own ranks, now these Ashen Knights come along, spouting the same doggerel. I'm amazed Guilliman would let such ideas spread in his own ranks!"

Memnos spat, "Innovation, invention and shameless modification. These Primaris are an abomination, we must stop them."

Yet Toran cut them all off barking, "Do nothing rash! Keep your heads down and mouths shut, I want more information before we do anything. Now come, let us meet this Achilles and find out what he intends for this world."


	6. Chapter 6

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 6**

The camp of the Ashen Knights was a hive of activity as they readied themselves for war. Everywhere mortal chattels laboured to erect the necessary buildings and defences, all dropped from the Fortress-Barge Iconoclast less than an hour earlier. Primaris Marines hastened to their posts, preparing for the coming battles and checking their weapons while mortal Priests moved through the bedlam, blessing the warriors for the coming fray. Meanwhile red-clad Primaris disciples of Cawl, the Theorici, made their preparations upon the new devices and technologies that only they could operate.

The camp was a picture of brisk efficiency and yet amongst that bustle a group of Ashen Knights were kneeling in the dust with their heads lowered. They were attending upon a lone figure in black, with a Crozius in one hand and a thick tome in the other. His name was Ulysses, Master of Sanctity of the Ashen Knights and he was leading the warriors in prayer, "So may you look upon our works, oh mighty God-Emperor and smile upon our humble efforts. We shall liberate this world from the clutches of evil and ignorance and deliver these wayward children unto your care. We shall tear down the corrupt old order and replace it with a shining beacon dedicated to your worship and should we die may you absolve us of our sins and permit us to sit at your side!"

On cue the Ashen Knights intoned, "We serve only the God-Emperor."

"Go," Ulysses proclaimed, "And suffer not the Heretic to live!"

The Ashen Knights stood up and departed, leaving Ulysses alone. He cut a terrifying figure in his black armour, adorned with bones of blessed Martyrs. He eschewed the leather cape that some Primaris Chaplains had adopted but lost none of his presence for it. His face was brutal in aspect, with a rugged jawline and a furious scowl that never seemed to waver. This was a face that had seen millions cut down in their prime and watched worlds burn in the pyres of battle.

Ulysses looked upon the camp of the Ashen Knights and was satisfied that all was proceeding as ordained. Everywhere the Primaris Marines were preparing for the coming offensive, attended to by their mortal chattels. Some two centuries of warriors, all eager for the fray, bursting to catch up with those already sent into the war zone. Ulysses was aware that some older Chapters advocated dropping straight into the heart of the battle but such was not the Ashen Knight's way. The preliminary forces were merely to tie up the foe and clear routes for the coming offensive. When the true blow came it would do so in one overwhelming sledgehammer, a massive onslaught that was irresistible and methodical in its destruction.

Ulysses moved through the camp, seeing the chattels and Primaris making way for his esteemed presence. The Brethren were busy fortifying their souls for the battles to come and sorting out who they would be fighting alongside. As with their role-models the Black Templars they held little regard for imposed squad formations, preferring to fight alongside those of similar temperament. The Primaris were respectful and deferent to Ulysses, with the sole exception of the Reivers, who were aloof and disrespectful as ever. Ulysses did not chide them for it though, their role as advance skirmishers demanded a certain independence of thought and total confidence in their own abilities, which required Brothers of a certain impertinent mindset.

Elsewhere he saw the Theorici labouring over a Repulsor, which was stubbornly refusing to lift off the ground. These new machines were potent indeed but the trade-off was reliability, they hadn't quite worked out all the Knicks and the machines were cantankerous, wilful and hard to placate. Then Ulysses chided himself for thinking like some superstitious old Astartes, it was only a machine not a living Brother. Its spirit would be broken like a young colt and it would be compelled to serve, no machine would be allowed to defy the will of the Ashen Knights.

At last Ulysses reached his goal, the shining figure of Lord-Marshall Achilles himself. The commander of the Ashen Knights wore golden artificer armour and carried himself like a noble-born leader. He was surrounded by ritual priests and mortal chattels, one of whom was sweating under the weight of the great and terrible sword: Despoiler. Achilles' face was stern and unforgiving, his burning ambition and zeal clear to see. He was the lord of all he surveyed and none could look upon him and not know it.

Achilles was standing on the ramp of the Crusader Queen, a relic Spartan assault tank. Technically a violation of Guiliman's prohibition on Land Raiders but it had been a personal gift from Belisarius Cawl himself, the polymath seemingly quite adept at getting around restrictions and limitations. Besides Ulysses was certain that the Lord Commander wouldn't kick up a fuss over one tank… well almost certain.

As Ulysses approached he saw the Lord-Marshall addressing a group of Primaris officers, Lieutenants, the Commanders of the Centuries, senior Sergeants and Librarians. That last group was a deviation to the template laid down by the Black Templars but then the Ashen Knights did not consider themselves bound by ancient precepts or dusty traditions. The Lord-Marshall was just concluding his address and he finished up as he saw Ulysses appear. Achilles dismissed his subordinates to their duties and he jumped down to meet the Master of Sanctity face to face.

Ulysses bowed in a brisk manner and said, "Lord-Marshall."

Achilles responded, "No time for that my friend, how is the camp?"

Brusque, straight to the point and showing no patience for laborious ritual greetings, that was Achilles to the core, which was why Ulysses considered him one of his only two friends. The Master of Sanctity straightened up and equally brusquely answered, "The advance parties are deployed and the rest await your orders. We will attack on your command."

"Good," Achilles stated, "Three hundred Primaris will be more than sufficient. The other Host-Marshals send word; their own crusades are engaging across the Sector. The filth of Chaos will be swept aside with ease."

Both of them were well aware that the Ashen Knights harboured ambitions of matching the Black Templars in numbers but it was early days for such dreams. At present they numbered only twelve hundred Primaris, but that number was set only to rise. Ulysses approved, it would only increase their usefulness to the God-Emperor and he said, "Soon this Saint Karyl Trail will be secured."

"As the Lord Commander ordered," Achilles agreed, "Yet this particular world concerns me."

Ulysses knew exactly what he meant and said, "This whole planet shows a shocking lack of faith. There are more libraries than cathedrals here and some of those books fail to even mention the God-Emperor! I scarcely believed it when I read the briefing notes, to think a whole planet clings to secular learning, it is disgrace. No wonder the filth of Chaos came here; they must surely have been drawn by its meagre piety. Such lack of devotion cannot be tolerated; we must burn out this deviancy."

Achilles looked into the distance and said, "Be assured that we will, but first we must defeat the hosts of Chaos."

Ulysses drove his fist into his palm and spat, "The God-Emperor's will cannot be stayed, it is our destiny to spread the faith to all people of all worlds!"

Yet Achilles frowned as said, "There has been a complication, another Chapter was already on the ground when we arrived. The Storm Heralds."

Ulysses had seen the name in the briefing notes and growled, "The local Chapter, responsible for guarding these worlds. Those weaklings don't deserve a moment of our time. Their crumbling defence let this world slip into deviancy, they are responsible for this mess and now we have to clean it up for them."

Achilles drew in a breath and said, "Nevertheless Practici Elikos has encountered one of their officers. I have ordered them brought here for questioning."

Ulysses almost smiled, Elikos was his other friend but he kept on the topic saying , "You waste time on such as them?"

Achilles waved his entourage back to give him a moment's privacy then and stepped closer saying, "There is another reason. The name of the Storm Heralds has been raised in the highest ranks of the Primarch's court. Whispers abound that they are unsound, that they may have even turned renegade…"

Ulysses growled, "The Lord Commander wants them eliminated?"

Achilles shook his head saying, "The Primarch does nothing without due consideration, so those closest to him require proof of treachery. I have been quietly urged by those in high places to investigate these Storm Heralds and bring back evidence of their Heresy. If can we prove to the Primarch that they are indeed renegades, then our Chapter will be favoured greatly in the coming campaigns."

Ulysses nodded and said, "No sign of Heresy will escape our sight."

Achilles held up a hand and said, "Here they come, say not a word of this."

Ulysses turned and looked into the camp, seeing a line of figures following the welcome sight of Elikos. They looked small to his eye, a clear head shorter than his own breed. Ulysses had seen the old Astartes before, usually occupying high office in the Indomitus Crusade and had assumed their armour was mostly ceremonial but seeing them in the field proved that wrong. The Storm Herald's armour was blue and grey, chased with gold which was a strange sight amongst the jet black and shining steel of the Ashen Knights.

Their armour was mechanically basic, functional even and lacked the improvements his own plate boasted, yet they were covered in a riot of iconography. Every blue-clad warrior boasted his own unique combination of purity seals, kill tallies and campaign markings. The Ashen Knight's plate was by comparison clean and pure, honours were for the God-Emperor alone and the Brethren were sparse in their self-congratulations. Only the officer Centurions bore horsehair crests and gold was saved for the Lord-Marshall alone.

In contrast these Storm Heralds were festooned with self-awarded laurels, prideful boasts of their exploits and overblown assertions of their prowess. Ulysses could read their tallies from here and found them to be shameless exaggerations; he refused to believe any one of them could have lived through half the deeds they that claimed to have achieved. The Captain alone had a ridiculous amount of gold braiding and a long red cloak to mark him out. An unabashed vanity if Ulysses ever saw one and he instantly judged these warriors to be gilded peacocks, made weak by their swollen egos.

Their weapons looked squat and underpowered, the bolters far too short and there was a distinct lack of uniformity among them. Primaris Marines maximised their potential with overwhelming volleys of uniform power, yet these warriors seemed to mix and match as they liked. He had heard the old Astartes wax on that it was more tactically flexible but Ulysses found such talk to be outdated, an obsolete philosophy of war from a morbid and stagnant culture.

There was something else missing and it took Ulysses a moment to realise what it was. Every Ashen Knight carried a reliquary of the God-Emperor on his person, containing the finger bones of saints, locks of hair from blessed martyrs or a phial of blood from a most holy man. The Storm Heralds had no such talismans, a small discrepancy but one that jarred Ulysses and made him gnash his teeth.

"So these are the Storm Heralds," Ulysses growled, "I am far from impressed."

"Renegades or not they cling to their obsolete philosophies and tactics," Achilles declared, "But do not worry; I will make sure they understand who's in charge here from the outset."

The strange group strode right up to them and Ulysses saw their Captain remove his helm, revealing a face marked by twin diagonal scars and one red augmetic eye. The officer made a florid and overly elaborate bow, entirely in keeping with the antiquated traditions of the old Astartes and then rose up to say, "Chapter Master Achilles I presume? I greet you in the name of Him on Terra, I am Captain Toran and I…"

Achilles cut him off growling, "I don't care who you are, this is our warzone now and you intrude in matters that do not concern you. Your forces will stand down immediately and submit to our authority."


	7. Chapter 7

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 7**

The man came at him with a wild cry on his lips and the light of madness in his eyes. He was wearing dun fatigues, a grey helmet and carrying a lasgun with a bayonet on the end. He charged out of a ruined doorway, trying to catch his foe by surprise and ram his bayonet somewhere lethal. It was almost comical that he would even think to try.

Kasarox was well aware of the man before he even sprang out of hiding, the laboured breathing rasping in his transhuman ears so the Coryphaus slowed slightly as he approached and let the man spring his crude trap. He watched the mortal leap out and chuckled as he witnessed the eyes widen in shock but to his credit, the man carried on his wild attack. With his Transhuman perceptions Kasarox assessed the threat, seeing the poor quality of his uniform and the worn heels of his boots. Planetary Defence Force, he reckoned, part-time soldiers, the lowest form of defence. The hated Imperium used such poorly-equipped fops as firebreaks, sending them into the fray to slow attackers down until more professional troops could be mustered. It was almost an insult that they would send such men as this into the fires of war.

In the time it had taken Kasarox to think this the man had taken a single step, swinging his bayonet with all his strength. Kasarox watched the man for an instant, then he moved. His great fist swung out and intercepted the weapon, even unpowered it shattered his arm and sent the rifle flying into the dust. Before the man had time to feel the wound his other hand flew forth and grasped the mortal round the neck, hoisting him off the ground.

Kasarox held the struggling man without any discomfort and hissed, "Foolish but still brave, perhaps you have the mettle to serve the Dark Gods, to embrace the Pantheon."

The man struggled futilely and gasped, "You'll kill me!"

Kasarox shook his head explaining, "Only the weak die, the strong prosper. Join Chaos and forsake the False Emperor, he doesn't care about you, he doesn't even know your name."

The man kicked feebly at the air and whimpered, "The Emperor loves us…"

Kasarox hissed in disgust and with a twitch snapped the man's neck, killing him instantly. The Word Bearer dropped the corpse and left it in his wake. Ignorance was one thing, but willful blindness was unforgivable. The Word Bearers were here to spread enlightenment, to bring the boons of Chaos, but the Imperium instilled such dogmatic adherence to their lies that many could not see the truth, even when i t was right before their eyes.

Kasarox strode on, taking in the battle around him. Abulaz had at last given permission for the Crooked Path to engage and everywhere he looked the forces of Chaos were sweeping aside the pathetic resistance. The Word Bearers were moving methodically through the city, cutting down any resistance and dragging away any survivors for indoctrination to the worship of Chaos. The weak mortals were no match for the glorious servants of the Dark Gods and they crushed any who dared to stand against them. The noise and the bloodshed were a benediction from the Dark Gods, a sound pleasing to their ears and a delight for their eyes.

As he strode Kasarox barked out orders, deploying squads and coordinating the counter-attack with skills born from centuries of practice. He directed Chaos Marines, Havocs and Chosen with the grace of a master conductor, bringing ruin to his enemies and for the worst knots of resistance he brought forth Daemon engines and Maulerfiends. The Word Bearers obeyed his orders instantly, the heat of combat driving out any hesitancy or disdain.

Kasarox revelled in the power at his fingertips, at making his will a reality. At moments such as this he could imagine what it would be like to be blessed by the Gods, to wield the power of the pantheon. All his deficiencies would fall aside and he dared to imagine himself as a luminous being of unholy majesty.

The thought only lasted a heartbeat and then reality returned, his limited, unhallowed flesh caging his unworthy spirit. Kasarox snarled in anger as his failings were demonstrated to him once more and he thirsted to find something to vent his frustrations upon. He saw a gun nest positioned in a corner, the troops within fighting was the desperation of hopeless men. With a snarl of anger he flung himself at the pathetic soldiers, and in moments he had obliterated them.

Kasarox stood in the ruin he had wrought and heard a mocking laugh, "Feel better?"

He half turned and saw Raruma in his most bestial aspect. His hands were elongated claws, dripping fresh blood and his armour was swollen with muscles and sinew. His faceplate was a wide shark-like grin and from his back wings of smoke billowed.

Kasarox felt envy stir in his hearts and he spat, "Mocker, shouldn't you be killing something?"

"No much left to kill," Raruma chortled, "I pulled some civilians out of a basement, they kept me amused almost a whole minute."

Kasarox shook his head and said, "You should have sent them for re-indoctrination."

"Ah, let me have my fun," Raruma sang in his twin voices, "My Neverborn was growing bored, Abulaz kept us penned for too long."

"He is the Dark Apostle," Kasarox spat, "Trust him, he sees all and knows all."

"Ha! If he truly knew all he'd have killed me long ago," Raruma retorted, "He's blind and deaf, he couldn't fight his way out of a wet paper bag without you."

Kasarox shook his head and snarled, "Such blasphemy, why haven't I killed you already?"

Raruma's grin was feral as he quipped, "Must be my charming personality."

Kasarox was about to rebuke him but then a call came over the vox and his attention was caught. He heard the fierce cries of his brethren and in the background the unmistakable sound of bolters firing. Before the thought had finished forming Kasarox was already moving at a dead run and the possessed marine followed calling, "Where are you going?"

Kasarox shouted, "There's more trouble ahead, all squads with me!"

Swiftly Kasarox led two score Chaos Marines through the winding streets, passing lecture halls, libraries and playhouses. Yet the Coryphaus wasted not a moment upon these indolent fanes, for he had been yearning to meet the corpse-worshippers in battle, the trice accursed Loyalist Astartes. Now it was here at last, a chance to prove his worth and win divine favour.

Kasarox skidded around a corner, expecting to find battle but was shocked by what he saw. Before the steps of a large courthouse a knot of Word Bearers was fighting a line of shining warriors, but what warriors they were. They wore steel and black colours, with the despised Imperial Aquila displayed proudly on their chests. They were tall and broad, bearing odd weapons and their plate was a model he had never seen before. The sight stopped him in his tracks, for this was unprecedented. He had fought across Daemon worlds and sailed the Eye of Terror but this stunned him, could it be; had the hated Imperium finally produced something… new?

Raruma gasped, "What are they?"

Yet Kasarox yelled, "Doesn't matter, kill them all!"

With a furious roar the Word Bearers charged forth, bringing their weapons up. They were fast and strong but the strange warriors reacted with blinding speed. A knot of them spun about and brought up a line of blazing plasma guns, then let loose hell. Searing balls of brilliant fire hurtled into the charging Word Bearers, catching them dead on. Ceramite melted and flesh broiled as the plasma gunners fired over and over, killing with merciless fury. Kasarox was aware of the limitations of Imperial technology, plasma being particularly unreliable, but these gunners fired repeatedly with confidence and surety.

A half-dozen Chaos Marines fell as the lines closed but then they leapt into the fray with a savage roar. The strange warriors hastily swung the butts of their weapons but in close combat Kasarox was sure his forces held the advantage. He was cruelly disabused of that notion as he swung his fist at a tall warrior only to have him duck back and counter with blinding speed.

Kasarox grunted as the blow rang off the side of his helm but he rode with it and came up from the other side with a back-handed blow that made contact. A flash of power and the familiar reverberation up his arm told him that he had struck true and the warrior collapsed with his chest staved in. Kasarox breathed a little easier as he discovered that these peculiar beings still died like any other.

He looked about and saw the Word Bearers piling into the loyalists with abandon. They hacked with black blades and ritual daggers, crying their fervour unto the Gods. He bellowed orders and directed the fray with consummate skill but the loyalist scum responded with lamentable stubbornness, refusing to yield an inch of ground as they bellowed catechisms of devotion to a dead liar. They fought to the last and not one of them turned his back, but it didn't matter. Kasarox orchestrated their doom and they were slowly swamped by superior numbers.

Caught on two sides the curious warriors were being ground down one by one but they fought on regardless. They hacked and they stabbed with short blades, fighting on even when they been pierced by many blows. Kasarox saw Raruma stab his claws into a reeling loyalist and expected him to fall, but he did no such thing. Instead the warrior went berserk, throwing himself into a frenzied attack that bowled the Possessed Marine over with startling strength. They rolled on the ground, hacking and stabbing as Transhuman blood flowed.

Kasarox was about to intervene but sharp a screech from above announced the arrival of more loyalists. Three of them fell on the blazing trails of jump-packs, their armour swollen and their legs braced by pneumatic pistons. Kasarox had never seen the like before but he recognised that they carried bolt-weapons and hastily threw himself aside. The trio opened up before they even touched down, their boxy weapons spewing bolts at a rate a Heavy bolter would be pressed to match.

The hail of rounds blew apart breastplates, it found gaps in plates and penetrated helms with relentless fury. The jump-troops were disdainful and proud in their killing, smiting down foes with contempt and confidence. A wave of Word Bearers went down under the hail of fire, blown apart by the savage barrage and Kasarox felt rounds pinging off his pauldrons as he yelled, "Summon the Maulerfiend!"

A furious roar erupted in response and the trio of jump-troops spun about. They found themselves confronted by the raging Daemon engine charging straight at them. A bestial roar rang out as the monstrous creature charged; it was a nightmarish fusion of plasteel and cabled muscles, with black claws and fire pouring out of its mouth. The light of the Warp burned in its eyes and within that shell of metal was bound the essence of a Neverborn.

The jump-troop's overconfidence proved their undoing for they were faced with a choice, fight or flee and they made the mistake of trying to fight. They stood their ground, bolt-weapons spewing torrents of rounds but the bolts merely glanced off its thick plates as the Maulerfiend leapt upon them with a feral cry.

Bestial roars erupted as the Daemon engine ripped two jump-troops into shreds. The third finally tried to flee, boosting away on wings of fire but a lashing tendril wrapped around his ankle and dragged him back. The jump-trooper fell into the dust and the Maulerfiend was upon him in a heartbeat, tearing him limb from limb.

Kasarox saw the fight was over and stood to take it in. The abnormal Marines were dead but they had dragged down many Word Bearers with them, too many. He saw Raruma heave a dead body off him and climb to his feet growling, "That was harder than it should have been."

Kasarox knelt to examine a dead body asking, "What are these things? Is the Imperium trying something new?"

"New?" Raruma spat, "The Corpse-worshippers don't know the meaning of the term. They haven't had the brains to attempt anything new in millennia."

"That seems to have changed," Kasarox muttered picking up a plasma rifle, noting the alterations to its cooling systems.

"So what do we do?" Rauma asked.

Kasarox thought about it and said, "Gather the remains and take them back to camp. Abulaz needs to hear about these developments."


	8. Chapter 8

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 8**

Toran's jaw fell, the shock spreading through him at the pronouncement. The words made no sense to him, the command of the Ashen Knight's Lord-Marshall ringing in his ears. He blinked in surprise and said, "What was that?!"

Achilles cut an impressive figure in his golden artificer armour but his face was a picture of ire as he spat, "I said stand down."

Toran stunned by the insult implied, the violation of the traditions of Astartes. Who did this pup think he was? Toran felt his anger rising as he growled back, "That's not going to happen."

Achilles scowled as he hissed, "Your Chapter will submit to my authority, that wasn't a request."

Toran wasn't about to be talked down to by some new-born whelp and snarled, "You dare? We are not under your command; we are a sovereign and proud Chapter. We do not take orders from you!"

Achilles own anger was rising and he spat, "My authority comes from the Lord Commander of the Imperium."

Toran didn't care and barked back at him, "Then he can come here and tell us that himself! Tradition allows you to make requests and entreaties; it does not permit you to give orders to another Chapter."

It seemed that was the wrong thing to say, for the Chaplain by Achilles' side growled, "Traditions and endless rituals, how like an obsolete Astartes. Look around you and see our authority made manifest."

Toran glanced to the side and saw that a ring of Ashen Knights had appeared around them, a wall of steel and black armour rising on all sides. The Primaris were not looking at all forgiving and they were all armed. Achilles snorted dismissively and exclaimed, "You are outnumbered and surrounded, you must stand down."

Toran grasped instantly that he was in an impossible position but he remained an Astartes and the pride of his Chapter was at stake. Like any Astartes Toran would die for a principle and he growled, "That's not going to happen."

Suddenly one of the warriors, an Intercessor as Elikos had named them, made an attempt to grab Jediah. He must have thought with his height, weight and speed he could easily subdue the smaller Astartes but his confidence proved to be misplaced. Jediah moved like lightning, grabbing the Primaris by the wrist and hauling backwards. He twisted to pull the Intercessor off-balance and moved his boot out to catch the shin. The Ashen Knight slammed into face-down into the dirt and before he could even process that fact Jediah was on his back, knee slamming down as he grabbed an arm and levered it upwards, almost ripping the shoulder out of its socket. Jediah's other hand held his Fractal edged short-sword and he laid it point down to the spine hissing, "Move and you die."

The Ashen Knights were stunned by the sudden reversal but Toran and his squad had already reacted. With blinding speed the Storm Heralds had drawn their weapons and now formed a solid ring of defence, all of them pointing weapons outwards. Toran barked loudly, "It is you who shall stand down!"

This had taken barely a moment but the Ashen Knights were not rendered incapable of action, bringing up their bolt-rifles to point them at the surround knot of blue-clad Space Marines. Toran saw a forest of gun-barrels pointed right at his face and knew that his squad could not survive a single volley. He refused to blink though, if he were to die it would on his feet and with his sword in hand, no other death could suit a warrior of the Astartes.

Toran saw fingers start to tighten on triggers but an instant before violence erupted an unexpected sound issued forth. He was baffled to see Achilles standing there, head thrown back as a full laugh slipped from his lips. He exclaimed loudly, "So you do have some fire in you, I am impressed! I took you for weak sops but that was a most worthy display. Stand down Ashen Knights; I will not kill these ones today."

Barrels were lowered but quite pointed away as Toran in turn lowered his sword. He nodded to his squad to do the same then said, "Jediah, let him up."

Jediah was still kneeling on the Intercessor and hissed, "Let me gift this one with a scar, just a little reminder not to touch without permission."

"Enough," Toran barked, "Do not shame us in front of our cousins."

Jediah snorted in disgust but complied, rolling off the Intercessor. Both groups eyed each other warily but Apothecary Elikos looked stunned as he gasped, "But he's a Primaris. You just took down a Primaris, like it was nothing! How does an Astartes beat a Primaris?"

Jediah sneered, "Having an advantage is nothing, if you don't know how to use it."

Elikos shook his head and said, "I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes."

Toran brushed it off saying, "You have no idea how nasty Jediah can be. Now shall we all put our weapons away or get back to killing each other?"

The Chaplain moved to say something but was halted by Achilles' raised hand as the Lord-Marshall declared, "The God-Emperor weeps when his servants fight each other. Come let us talk and see if there is another way to resolve this."

Toran wasn't certain he could trust these Primaris but he saw the Ashen Knights backing away and sheathed his sword. He looked at the Lord-Marshall and hastily reassessed, here was a warrior born, prideful and ambitious, driven by duty and a thirst for glory that matched any Astartes'. There was an air of impatience about Achilles, a sense that traditional speech would only irritate and Toran instantly decided to dispense with time-honoured protocols and drive straight to the point.

Toran drew in a breath and said, "Tell me what you intend for this world."

Achilles slowly remarked, "So you can be direct, good. We are here to conqueror this world as part of a wider campaign to secure this warp-route. The Lord Commander desires that the passage between Segmentums Solar and Tempestus be kept open."

Toran nodded adding, "We too seek to safeguard this region of space, we serve the Emperor by acting as these world's defenders."

"You haven't done a very good job," the Chaplain spat.

"Enough Ulysses," Achilles stated, "Now tell me this, what is your plan for the Word Bearers?"

"Simple," Toran replied, "We plan to kill them, every last one of the scum."

Achilles looked surprised and commented, "Your strength and ruthlessness are admirable but we spied considerable numbers of the foe. I doubt you can best them alone."

Toran saw an opening and said, "At times like this I find comfort in the teachings of the Primarch."

"You mean the Codex Astartes," Ulysses snorted in disgust.

"Do not be so quick to discount its wisdom," Toran countered suppressing his ire, "Codex Vol III, chapter II, verse XI tells us: Only those eager to become martyrs horde a battle."

Achilles gave him a thoughtful look and mused, "You propose an alliance?"

Toran knew he was on shaky ground here and ventured, "More an alignment of our goals. We have mutual enemies here and do any disagree that the Traitor's eradication must take priority over all else?"

Achilles' eyes narrowed then he said, "I doubt our two Chapters will work well together."

Toran nodded and said, "In that case let us agree to divide up this warzone, we can each focus upon our own sectors. There is a Word Bearer camp on the outskirts of the city; we intend to drive upon it."

Ulysses spoke up to say, "We saw it from orbit and tried to drop magma-bombs on it but some foul sorcery disrupted our targeting."

"We too had that problem too with airstrikes," Toran said, "A ground attack is the only option."

Achilles was quiet for a moment then said, "We intended to fight across the city, using it as cover. If we were to approach from the south and you from the north we would catch the scum in a vice."

Toran saw the implied peace offering and stated, "That is acceptable, any who serve Him on Terra shall be our allies."

Achilles paused and said, "You profess to serve the God-Emperor… but what of his Regent?"

"Roboute Guilliman is our gene-father, only the Emperor is higher in our devotions," Toran answered, "We lament that he has not yet seen fit to contact us, but rest assured should his orders come we would obey without hesitation."

Achilles paused for a moment then made a decision saying, "Destroying the Traitor scum must take priority, nothing can be allowed to interfere with that. Let the Storm Heralds and Ashen Knights not waste time arguing when the enemy is knocking at the door."

Toran breathed a little easier but there was a question he had to ask while he had the chance, "Wise words but I have to know… have you met him?"

Achilles raised an eyebrow and said, "The Primarch, I did meet him once. He personally granted us our Charter of Founding, as he does for all new Primaris Chapters."

A billion responses ran through Toran's mind, all the possible questions he could ask, but all he could say was, "What is he like?"

A sad smile cracked Achilles' lip and he said, "Everybody always asks that and I tell them this: do not believe the legends, to meet him is to realise they are nothing but myths and fables. The Primarch is so much more and at the same time so much less, than you would think. It is like the difference between seeing with your helm's autosenses and with your own eyes. Your heart tells you he blazes with glory and radiance, you feel like you truly are speaking to a demi-god and wonder steals your breath away. Yet simultaneously your eyes tell you he is but a man with the weight of the galaxy upon his shoulders. You can see in his eyes how greatly it wearies him, knowing that everything depends upon him, knowing that he is the last loyal son. He is the fulcrum upon which the future will turn and he knows it, yet he is equal to the task at hand."

Toran was amazed by the thought and he could only say, "I would very much like to meet him."

"Do not wish too hard," Achilles responded, "Hope is for the weak and it rarely develops as expected."

Toran wasn't sure what that meant but stated, "Time is wasting, I should return to my Marines."

Achilles nodded and said, "These warriors will escort you safely back to your Company. You had better make haste or the Word Bearers will be ashes before you get to their base."

Toran grinned now and responded with pride, "The Storm Heralds can keep up with anybody, it is you had better make haste or be left in our dust."

"A fiery spirit indeed," Achilles replied, "Go and I will see you again at the objective."

Toran bowed but only shallowly and then he took his leave, his squad following on behind as they returned to their own Chapter. Despite the rough greeting Toran was confident that their two Chapters could overcome their differences and that they could work together to complete their mutual goals. Yet if Toran could have heard what was said after he left he would not have been so certain.

Chaplain Ulysses watched until the Storm Heralds had completely departed and then turned to his commander growling angrily, "You're just going to let them go?"

Achilles kept watching the distance as he remarked calmly, "This is why I am Lord-Marshall and you are not. You have admirable zeal and ruthlessness my friend, but you lack cunning."

Ulysses paused and then inquired, "You were probing to draw out information?"

"Yes and I learned a great deal," Achilles replied, "I uncovered that these Storm Heralds do not consider themselves renegades."

"Heretics never do," Ulysses spat resentfully.

Achilles stated, "Indeed, which is why I am dispatching the Reivers to covertly observe them, to see if they are in league with these Word Bearers or if they pursue their own Heresy. I want to see what they do when they think we are not watching."

Ulysses thought upon it and commented, "A risky ploy."

"A calculated risk," Achilles stated, "But there is a Terran phrase that suits the circumstances; I am giving them just enough rope to hang themselves with."


	9. Chapter 9

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 9**

The thunder of bolters filled the air, mixed with the screams of the dying and the hoarse roar of chainswords, issuing from burned-out ruins and collapsing buildings. In the carcasses of ornate playhouses and delicate spires they fought while beautiful apartment buildings went up in flames, but neither side cared about that.

On one side were bands of ragged cultists and mutants, fighting best they could. They were confronted by a wave of blue clad Astartes, clearing the way for their armoured support. They were the Storm Heralds Third Company, massed together for a united assault through the city and stopping for nothing. They met the foe blade to blade in the flaming wreckage and cut them down in droves, giving no quarter and sparing none. In their wake the PDF advanced but they were hard pressed to keep up with the Space Marines.

Marching through the street below Captain Toran looked upon the battle and felt impatience gnawing at his guts. Third Company had come together as one to launch this all-out assault and they were making swift progress, yet not swift enough for his tastes. He assessed the battle and called out, "Sergeant Lorath advance up the right flank, clear out those tenements now! Sergeant Zeax, redeploy in his wake I want covering fire down that road branching to the south. Sergeant Matheus your Tacticals are moving too slowly, clear those buildings and move on!"

Third Company hastened to obey and Toran gritted his teeth, no matter how fast they moved it still felt too slow. Not for the first time Toran wished for aerial support but one glance upwards disabused him of that notion. The sky was filled with the swirling contrails of dogfights and battling aircraft. Imperial Thunderbolt fighters duelling with Hell talons and Hell-drakes. The aerial battle hadn't stopped since the moment the Astartes had arrived and the Storm Herald's gunships and aerial craft were fully committed to the fight above. To call down even one gunship could cost good men their lives, no matter how impatient Toran was he wouldn't do that to fellow warriors.

Toran kept on walking, sweeping the street with his bolter. Behind him rolled a line of vehicles, Predators, Whirlwinds, Hunters, a Vindicator and a single Land Raider, the Pride of Lujan. Their firepower would be essential when they reached the enemy base, but here in the narrow streets they were vulnerable and needed infantry protection. He had scouts and Initiates sweeping the surrounding buildings but there were a million places an enemy could be hiding and they had not the time required to sweep them all.

Toran saw a pile of rubble as high as his head and he snarled in frustration as he called, "Sergeant Matheus, move ahead and scout beyond the rubble while we bring up the Vindicator. Hammer of Heretics, bulldoze a path for the column, everybody else conduct overwatch as it uses its dozer blade."

As the tank went to work shifting the debris, Chaplain Furion came to stand beside Toran and said, "Captain, you appear to be in great haste today."

Toran sighed to vent his frustrations and admitted, "I don't want us to fall behind the Ashen Knights."

Furion nodded his skull helm and asked, "Were they that bad?"

"Not bad, but incredibly arrogant," Toran answered, "They take the idea that they are better than us as a fact of life, like it's only natural that they will surpass us."

From behind them Novak called, "Never going to happen! Those upstart whelps have no idea of the horrors that await them in the galaxy, of the trials ahead. Maybe they are tall and powerful but one solid knock and they go over."

Arvael agreed, "They are woefully inexperienced and too accustomed to fighting from a position of superior strength, they have never met a foe stronger than they are and so cannot imagine any such foe exists. Their overconfidence is their greatest flaw; they consistently underestimated us and the Word Bearer threat."

Memnos joined in muttering, "Did you see the modifications they made to their own bodies? Blasphemy upon blasphemy, Id like to get my hands on whoever came up with the idea to change the gene-seed, I'd throttle him with my own Chains."

Furion stepped in to say, "My understanding is that would be the Primarch. These Primaris were created on his order and with his full sanction."

That shut Memnos promptly up but the vox crackled as Sergeant Orath's voice rang out from the rear of the column, "From what I hear they don't have any Terminators. I don't care what new toys these whelps have, nothing beats Tactical Dreadnought armour."

Toran shook his head, he was letting discipline slide with this talk. He shouldn't be letting his Marines openly disparage another Chapter, strange as they were. He drew in a breath and said, "Enough, we are all fighting the same enemy here. Let us focus on our goals; we will demonstrate our worth with our deeds not petty jibes."

Arvael mused, "Is that why you're letting their spies tag along behind us?"

Toran smirked under his helm and said, "Those Reivers? Yes I know they're there, they think they are sneaky but they are not. I fully expected Lord-Marshall Achilles to want to keep an eye on us and I want him to see how real Astartes conduct themselves."

From ahead the Vindicator rumbled forward as it finally cleared the debris and it drove on. Toran made to follow it, climbing over the shifted piles of rubble as the rest of the tanks moved on. As he reached the top he surveyed the surroundings, seeing the torn and ruined buildings all around. In the burnt out windows he saw the flashes of scouts moving and on the roof-tops Assault Marines leapt from perch to perch. They were carefully sweeping for potential ambushes but Toran knew all too well that in a city there were far too many places to hide. It would be all too easy for an enemy to avoid the scouting parties. Pushing forward was a risk but a necessary one and Astartes never let the odds intimidate them. Toran stood up and called, "Matheus sweep and clear ahead, everybody else move out."

As the column resumed its advance Arvael looked to his side, at a large building with a torn facade. Once its frontage was braced by square pillars of the classical style favoured in M.36 but now it was a slope of broken rubble. Arvael shook his head and remarked sadly, "That was the Principle lecture theatre of Oriella. So many lauded scholars spoke within, why Uthred Harriman himself presented his seminal thesis there in M.36. His lectures on the beneficence and magnanimity of the Emperor's rule were the talk of the planet; they were recited word for word by his devotees for millennia. I have read his books, they were most insightful."

"Don't get distracted," Furion advised, "Focus on the mission. If you require someone to hate then look no further than the Traitors, all this destruction is their fault."

"Speaking of which," Novak interjected, "Where the Frak are they? All we're seeing here are cultist dregs. Where are the Sorcerers and Possessed Marines? Where are the Daemon Engines? I don't like this one whit."

Persion wondered, "Perhaps the Ashen Knights drew them off, maybe the Traitors judged them the greater threat?"

"No," Toran said as the column began to cross a junction in the road, "Something is off, we are facing scant opposition here. Scouts report the Traitors have pulled back for some reason."

"Heretic scum," Jediah spat, "They attack when they should withdraw, withdraw when they should attack and waste time sacrificing prisoners. Their tactics make no sense."

"No sense to us," Arvael countered, "Rest assured though they have a larger purpose, Traitors always do."

"He's right," Furion stated, "Underestimating the enemy is the surest route to defeat."

Toran was about to say something but at that moment a flash came from down the roadway they were crossing. Before it had even consciously registered Toran was throwing himself aside, as a trail of Heavy Bolter rounds chewed up the ground where he had been standing and it was not alone. From a wide and squat building erupted an onslaught of firepower, a blitz of shells, las and missile fire coming right at them. Fireballs bloomed and lascannon blasts gouged terrific craters into the ground as Toran saw a pair of Brothers torn apart by the unexpected barrage and he shouted, "Ambush!"

The Company wasted not a moment with confusion or questions as to how the ambushers had evaded their scouting parties but instantly responded with a slew of firepower. Bolters thundered and heavy weapons responded with full fury, craving great craters into the building. Ferrocrete rained down but the structure of this particular building was strong and it held true.

Toran cursed the vagaries of urban warfare but instantly assessed that this building had clear lines of fire on all sides and thick, reinforced walls. It was an Administratum complex and like all Imperial buildings it was constructed to a military standard. The weight of fire was considerable and preternaturally accurate. Experience told him there were at least three squads of Astartes heavy weapon troops within and if the enemy had any sense at all they would be reinforced by at least as many close combat specialists.

Another las beam took off the head of another Brother and Toran cursed, "That fire's too accurate, it's the Traitors!"

"Look's like we found them at last!" Novak yelled as he spat rounds from his pistol.

Furion raised his voice, "Captain, request permission to take three squads and flank them!"

"Negative, there's no cover anywhere," Toran shouted, "Bring up the Pride of Lujan, unleash the Terminators!"

Under heavy fire the Company parted and into the gap rolled a massive machine. It easily eclipsed any other vehicle in the convoy, with wide tracks, a forward assault ramp, a twin heavy bolter and twin god-hammer pattern lascannons upon each flank. It was a Land Raider Phobos and from within it came Orath's vox-call, "Beware the Emperor's mailed fist!"

The Pride of Lujan roared as its engines threw it forward, leaping to top speed at a startling velocity. Instantly the incoming fire shifted, attempting to bracket the Land Raider. Toran could hear the hull ringing with impacts as a furious onslaught smote it but the Machine was the product of ancient sciences Mankind no longer grasped and its hull held true. In return the Lascannons spoke their anger, lashing the building with devastating fire, blowing windows open to spill eviscerated crimson-clad bodies.

More enemy fire rained down and Toran yelled, "Suppressing fire!"

The Company's heavy weapons spoke, wracking the walls with devastation as the Pride of Lujan roared onwards, contemptuously ignoring all incoming fire. The Administratum building loomed over it, a solid wall of reinforced Ferrocrete with no gate or doorway on this side but the Land Raider didn't seem to care. The driver steered right at the nearest wall at top speed, headed for an inevitable collision .

One second before it impacted the Lascannons spoke again, burrowing deeply into the wall as the Pride of Lujan smashed into it, bringing all its weight and momentum to bear. The wall exploded under the impact, blowing inwards to leave the Land Raider embedded in the building like a metal splinter into soft flesh. Even from here Toran heard the crash of the impact and a second later the sizzle of Thunder Hammers and Lightning claws impacting Ceramite as the passengers disembarked and Sergeant Orath roared, "Face me Traitors!"

The incoming fire slackened off and Toran bellowed, "This is our chance: Charge!"

Third Company rose up as leapt forward, a wave of blue Ceramite charging towards the enemy with all their fury. Toran felt his twin heartbeats accelerate and his body filled with hyper-adrenaline as he drew his sword. Furiously he ran and pushed himself harder, racing for all he was worth to reach the foe.

As they ran he saw Assault Marines soaring overhead, heading for the rooftop like blazing comets as Lorath called, "Faster! The killing has already started!"

On Toran's right Furion raised his Crozius high and called, "The Emperor expects victory and we shall not fail him! No mercy, no respite, no fear!"

As one, Third Company rolled forward, hearts thundering and weapons roaring. It was a glorious charge, one that would have been worthy of remembrance on any Chapel's walls and Toran knew it would sweep away any resistance. As the Pride of Lujan rolled back, to clear the way for the infantry, Toran gripped his sword tighter and whispered to himself, "I hope the Ashen Knights are watching, I want them to see how this is done."


	10. Chapter 10

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 10**

There was a buzzing note in the air, it was faint but its resonance was persistent. It was not a consistent noise either, rising and falling in pitch at seemingly random intervals, making it constantly intrude into one's thoughts. Just when one was getting accustomed to it the tone would suddenly change, making one grit one's teeth.

Marching down the street Ulysses did his best to put it from his mind and focus on the task at hand. It wasn't easy though, the noise was everywhere, emanating from the many Repulsors that were floating down the street behind him. Ulysses was well used to the way the anti-grav plates hummed constantly but never had he seen so many crammed into such a small space, their conflicting grav fields clashing with each other to create odd harmonics. They were also having a physical effect, the heavy grav-fields meaning that they did not float serenely along but instead crushed the ground beneath them, kicking up swirls of dust before their bow-wave.

Ulysses looked about him, seeing Ashen Knights everywhere. The Primaris Marines were advancing on a three century front, cutting the city into sections and sweeping it clean. Lord-Marshall Achilles had taken command of the primary thrust, another Centurion officer the second and Ulysses the third. The Ashen Knights were clearing the city as they went, smashing all resistance in a methodical sweep that left only charred corpses in their wake. It was meticulous work and yet they were advancing rapidly indeed. Behind the Master of Sanctity the Repulsors coasted forward, their turrets turning to point Onslaught Gatling cannons and Las-talons at possible threats while their commanders held onto pintle-mounted ironhail-stubbers. Behind them came heavier troops, Aggressors and Hellblasters while ahead swept Intercessor squads, backed up by bounding Inceptors. They isolated threats and obliterated them one by one, but several times had encountered stubborn resistance. Yet concentrated fire from the Repulsors had eradicated those threats effortlessly.

Ulysses was most pleased for the Ashen Knights acted as a well-oiled machine, each component exactly designed for its role and perfectly suited to the task at hand. He barely had to give any orders, the sergeants perfectly able to coordinate between themselves, each one trained to perfection in his role and knowing his counterparts thoughts as well as their own. It was like watching a thousand separate gears spring to life, each cog moving at its own pace and yet in perfect harmony with its neighbours to create a single whole. At moments like this Ulysses felt closest to the God-Emperor, taking immense satisfaction in doing His work.

Ulysses' thoughts were interrupted by the voice of Practici Elikos, who was marching beside him, "The advance goes well."

"These new stratagems are flawless," Ulysses agreed with his old friend, "The Codex Imperialis is breathtaking."

Elikos looked about and commented, "Libraries, museums, playhouses and stellar observatories, barely a cathedral to be seen. This city is decadent, no wonder it fell so easily."

Ulysses remarked, "It is a travesty that such weakness was tolerated. A hale society could have put up a real fight; a faithful citizenry would have thrown themselves on the guns of the foe to slow them down. Before we can leave this world we must correct such egregious errors."

Elikos looked thoughtful and said, "Yet it is strange that we have not seen any real resistance, just cultist scum. What are the Traitors playing at?"

Ulysses scoffed, "The Word Bearers flee before us, their faith is weak as their gods."

Elikos' expression was hidden by his helm but his voice sounded doubtful as he remarked, "I'm not convinced that they present no threat, something is off here. These Traitors have been fighting for millennia; I can't believe such incompetent foes have endangered the Imperium for ten thousand years."

Ulysses shook his head and said, "The greatest danger to the Imperium has been itself. Stagnation, corruption, mindless repetition of old ideas and doubts in the divinity of the God-Emperor are everywhere. The Primaris are here to do more than just fight off the enemies of Mankind; we are here to enervate this tired and withered society. To inject humanity with the strength and faith that they have been lacking for so long."

Elikos was about to say something else but at that moment the roar of bolt-rifles erupted from behind a row of apartment buildings. Ulysses heard the vox awaken with cries from the Intercessors, declaring that they had found a dug-in nest of cultists and calling for reinforcements. The Master of Sanctity didn't even have to give any orders, as a trio of Inceptors whooshed overhead on trails of fire. They arched up over the buildings, their assault bolters already firing before they had even touched the ground.

A few moments of bedlam erupted as the Primaris fell upon the cultists with full fury and then it cut off as voices announced all clear. The Inceptors appeared again, boosting back to the convoy to replenish their weapons, their magazines half-exhausted. Ulysses was thankful for the new weapons bestowed upon the Primaris but they did have their drawbacks. Assault bolters in particular consumed ammunition at a prodigious rate and lacked the capacity of traditional Heavy Bolters. Inceptors made peerless relief and deep strike troops but in any battle of endurance they were sadly lacking.

Elikos must have been thinking the same thing for he said, "Have you heard the latest? The Theorici whisper that Mars will soon issue us with new weapons. It seems Cawl is experimenting with variants of plasma weapons, assault and heavy versions."

Ulysses nodded and remarked, "That would be most welcome, plasma weapons would make Inceptors much more potent. The Hellblasters too could benefit from more flexible options."

Elikos muttered, "We could certainly have used them back on Grawell's world, that was a blood-soaked nightmare."

Ulysses swallowed for it had indeed been the Ashen Knight's sternest test. A whole world consumed by a capricious mass of mutating and cavorting flesh that had once been ten billion separate people. The powers of Chaos had waxed strong and the Chapter had been forced to fall back and enact the Exterminatus to burn out the taint, the first and last time they had done so. It was still a matter of fierce debate in the highest ranks as to whether that could be counted a victory or a defeat.

Ulysses drew in a breath and said, "We cannot rest on our laurels and we cannot ignore any advancement. That is what separates us from the old Astartes; they would waste centuries wringing their hands over new technologies, crying of tech-heresy while good souls died. We cannot fall into such hidebound thinking; we must never ignore an advantage simply because it is new."

Elikos sounded thoughtful as he said, "They certainly weren't what I expected. When I met those Storm Heralds I thought them foppish peacocks but they had fire and steel in their hearts. I did not expect such zeal from the likes of them; they were almost impressive."

Ulysses agreed, "They do fight bravely, the Reivers report they advance with respectable fury."

Elikos glanced over and asked in surprise, "You respect them?"

"In a way," Ulysses said, "We have ascertained they are not in league with the Word Bearers and they fight as best they can. Fury and zeal they lack not, but they are being left behind regardless. Their age is past and their tired old strategies are obsolete."

Elikos nodded and remarked, "The Astartes had their chance to save the galaxy and failed. The Primaris will soon replace them entirely and they can be retired."

Ulysses mused on this and commented, "I struggle to imagine any warrior retiring, they will probably seek honourable deaths in battle. It is for the best really, all know that the time of the Astartes is over. In a decade, two at the most, their breed will be extinct. Mark my words, by the time the Indomitus Crusade is done the Imperium will be protected exclusively by Primaris Marines."

Suddenly there was a mighty explosion and Ulysses' head snapped around as he heard the distinctive roars of missiles from ahead. His eyes snapped to a large building, a circular structure with a large domed roof. Ulysses didn't know its purpose and didn't care; all that mattered was that it was a perfect cover for an embedded foe. Missile and Lascannons fired constantly from its windows and the accuracy was such that it could only have been achieved by Transhumans. The Master of Sanctity instantly saw the threat to his forces and judged it to be perilous indeed. He saw that he had two options, sulk about trying to find a clever solution or charge immediately before they got boxed in… it wasn't even a choice really. Ulysses raised his Crozius high and cried, "Charge!"

As one the Ashen Knights leapt into motion, a solid wall of shining Ceramite barrelling forwards in an unstoppable mass. Lasfire, Heavy Bolter rounds and missiles flew downwards and tore into them, cutting down bodies left and right but the Primaris carried on regardless. Ulysses saw Elikos peel off, to save those he could and harvest the gene-seed of those he couldn't, but the Chaplain didn't pause in his run.

More devastation rained down but the Ashen Knights carried on, faith and fury driving them forwards. Ulysses saw one Intercessor take a bolt round to the gut, smashing through his plate, yet he did not fall. Inside every Primaris was a special organ created by Belisarius Cawl: the Furnace. When critically injured a Primaris would experience a flood of super-enzymes and adrenal cocktails that would boost their bodies beyond Transhuman levels, making them indomitable champions for a few precious seconds. Fired by the stimulant cocktail the Intercessor bounded forward, outpacing his brethren in his ardour to reach the foe.

As he ran Ulysses saw the range close and cried, "Thunder and fire formation, strike force with me. We are the God-Emperor's vengeance Brothers and we shall bestow His contempt on the foe!"

Instantly part of the force slowed, bringing heavy weapons to bear. Repulsors discharged their turret weapons and spat searing bolts of energy from hull-mounted Lascannons while Inceptors flew laterally, blasting away with furious volleys. The frontage of the building disappeared in a storm of lashing firepower, stonework vaporising under the fusillade and crimson bodies spilling to the ground already gushing blood.

Under the covering fire Ulysses led his Primaris straight into the heart of the inferno, fearing neither injury nor death. His hearts thundered in his chest and his blood roared in his ears as he felt his ire growing. He longed to meet the Traitors face to face, he yearned with all his being to make them pay for their treachery and he swore to dedicate every kill he made to the God-Emperor.

In the midst of the firestorm the Ashen Knight charged up a short flight of steps, leading to a large doorway. Here the shooting was most concentrated, the Word Bearers trying to create a chokepoint but the Primaris had the perfect tool for such situations. As one the Ashen Knights peeled off and let their heavy troops through: the Aggressors.

With heavy footfalls the elite troops marched up to the door, rounds pinging off their reinforced Gravis armour. They stomped up to the door and brought up their weapons, paired boltstorm gauntlets and shoulder mounted fragstorm grenade launchers. There was a single second's pause and then they fired, seeming to explode outwards as their weapons shot forth a blizzard of destruction. The carnage they unleashed could not have been matched by a line of Heavy Bolters, smashing the atrium beyond the door into rubble and creating a thick fog of brick dust and collapsing masonry. Ulysses felt his helm's respirators slam shut to keep out the cloying cloud but he raised his Crozius and shouted over the vox, "With me Brothers, Intercessors to the fore, Hellblasters behind. Show no mercy and let these scum know that their doom has come! We are the Knights of the Emperor and where we march only ashes remain!"

With his warriors one step behind Ulysses leapt into the cloying dust, gripping his Crozius tightly. His vision automatically shifted to thermal mode and he made out indistinct shapes in the gloom. With his hearts thundering he raised his Crozius and felt a grin steal over his lips. The Traitors had no concept what they faced this day but he would show them all, he would personally teach them to fear the Ashen Knights.


	11. Chapter 11

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 11**

The din of battle rang out over the city. It echoed in the vast libraries, it filled deserted lecture halls and medicae suites, it boomed up the dreaming spires and down into the basements of museums. The noise was everywhere, carrying the screams and roars of the dying, declarations to one and all that the war was escalating in fury and destruction. The noise made Kasarox's lips pull back over his teeth, revealing a feral snarl of anger. He was currently waiting in the Word Bearer's camp, watching the devastation from afar. The fact of that gnawed at his patience and made his mind seethe with frustration. The accursed loyalists were advancing upon his camp, from the north and the south and yet he could do nothing about it.

He and Raruma had dragged back the strange corpses before Abulaz and the Dark Apostle had taken a keen interest in them. For a moment Kasarox had dared to believe that the Dark Apostle would unleash the full might of the Crooked Path upon the foe. With the Daemon engines, hordes of cultists and hundreds of Lorgar's sons at his disposal Kasarox could have shattered the corpse-worshippers in a battle that would have drawn the eyes of the Pantheon but he had been denied. Instead Abulaz had ordered the Crook Path to fall back and leave only a token force behind, sacrificed to slow the enemy down.

Kasarox had wanted to spit in disgust at the notion, he had wanted to rage against such cowardice, but he had held his tongue. Abulaz was the Dark Apostle, Kasarox reminded himself, even now he was communing with the Pantheon and he would return with the revelations that would lead to victory. Once more Kasarox cursed his own stubborn nature, why did he have to question everything? If only he could crush his doubting mind then surely the Primordial Truth would bless him with power.

In frustration Kasarox turned and marched back into the camp, making his way past long lines of prisoners. They were bound hand and foot, forced to kneel in the dirt before towering Word Bearers, who were reading aloud from weighty tomes. Their words wracked reality with otherworldy resonances, the language of the Neverborn tearing at the fabric of the universe. Many prisoners were weeping bloody tears or going into fits as the truth of the Warp brushed against their minds. They closed their eyes and shook their heads but nothing could stop the torrent of revelations taking root in their souls. Already mutations were starting to manifest in their flesh, the first steps on the road to greatness. The seeds of Chaos had been sown and it was inevitable that they would bloom into a most terrible rapture.

As he walked Kasarox saw Raruma also wandering the camp, inspecting various prisoners. He had paused before one particular mortal, a woman whose face was spotting with the initial stigmata of mutation. She was trying to beg for her life but her tongue had swollen in her mouth, preventing her from speaking.

Kasarox strode over and snarled, "What are you doing Mocker?"

"Unhallowed," Raruma replied without looking up, "I am watching divinity at work, it is going to be magnificent."

Despite himself Kasarox found the words forming, "What do you mean?"

"My Neverborn can feel the seeds blooming," Raruma answered, "It will happen... Now."

Kasarox glanced at the mortal and saw a sudden change seize her as she tried to scream. Her tongue burst from her mouth and rolled down to touch the floor while her flesh began to billow outwards. The other prisoners screamed and tried to shrink back but were shackled and could only watch in horror as muscles swelled and bones shattered. New mouths opened over the body and phlegmy eyes blinked in random clusters as tentacles and claws erupted from random points. In seconds the mortal was gone and in her place was a bloated, heaving mass of muscle and fanged mouths, with multiple limbs and eyes that were filled with madness and pain.

Raruma looked upon the body and sighed, "The Gods blessed you too much, glory or madness, such is the way of Chaos."

"A Spawn," Kasarox stated, "Hardly impressive, still it will be useful. Drag this one away, it can join our army when the battle comes."

As cultists moved to contain the mewling spawn Kasarox shook his head, even though he yearned for blessings, to become a spawn was too far. Nobody would desire such a fate but the Pantheon acted as they willed, they could bestow immortality or abomination with but a whim. No living being could predict nor question their wills.

Raruma watched the spawn being dragged away and then said, "One spawn, will that make any difference?"

"No," Kasarox spat, "The corpse-worshippers close even now. We have no more than two hours until they hit this camp. Then we die."

Raruma looked at him and said, "You think we should be out there, fighting back with bolter and claw?"

Kasarox snarled, "I would shatter these pathetic fools with my own two hands. I could break them with the power we have here but instead we cower and wait!"

Raruma glanced about and then said quietly, "Maybe you should. Why not take our army and go fight? Go and win glory for Chaos and the Legion?"

Kasarox exhaled and let his anger settle as he replied, "Alas we cannot, Abulaz seeks answers from the great beyond. He bids us wait and do nothing."

"Abulaz," Raruma sneered, "He plays around with eldritch rituals when he should be fighting! Maybe if we spent less time on our knees and more time slaughtering our foes we would be winning this war!"

Kasarx fixed him with a glare and spat, "You go too far Mocker. The Dark Apostles' word is law; to question him is to question the will of the Dark Council and Lorgar himself!"

Raruma stepped in and said, "You give him too much credit, you know battle like he never could. If you were only to…"

"Stop right there," Kasarox growled, "One more word and I will kill you for blasphemy."

Raruma promptly shut up and lowered his eyes, letting the subject drop. Kasarox turned on his heel and strode off, the possessed Marine trailing behind. Together the pair strode through the camp, headed for Abulaz's pavilion. It was a huge structure, with a sharp pointed roof and trailing sides. The fabric was made of tanned human skin, daubed with runes of Chaos and the words of Lorgar and the air shimmered around it like it was blazing hot.

Standing before the entrance were a pair of Terminator guards, their helms boasting long tusks and their bodies covered in short spikes. The guards tracked Kasarox as he closed but raised their combi-bolters vertically to allow him to pass within. The Coryphaus was one of the few who could pass unchallenged but in his hearts he knew they scorned his unworthy flesh. Kasarox strode past them, entering a small section of the tent and found it to be filled with darkness and smoke. Short tables were covered in charts and books while a slave tended to smoking braziers. That was not all they found for standing over one table was Vulak, who was examining a scroll. The First Acolyte turned and saw Kasarox and Raruma enter and the sneer on his brutal face spoke volumes.

Vulak's nose wrinkled like he had smelled a bad scent and said, "What are you doing here worm?"

Kasarox bit down on the urge to put his fist through Vulak's face and replied coldly, "Where is Abulaz?"

Vulak snorted, "Busy with more important matters."

Angrily Raruma spat, "The corpse-worshippers close upon us."

"Hold your tongue Mocker," Vulak snarled, "The Dark Apostle is well aware of the situation, he has everything in hand."

Kasarox shook his head and said, "We need to be ready, the accursed loyalists approach but our defences lie dormant. We need to be ready to greet them. If we are unprepared they will slaughter us!"

Suddenly a deep voice rumbled, "Who dares disturb my communion?"

Kasarox fell to the floor and pressed his head to the ground as a far curtain wall was swept aside to reveal the majesty of the Dark Apostle. His armour was caked head to toe in dried blood and his aura shimmered with dark power. Kasarox glanced up and pleaded, "Forgive the intrusion Mighty Lord, but war comes and we seek your orders."

Abulaz grinned and said, "Orders? What are orders compared to revelation? Follow me and you shall all receive enlightenment."

Kasarox didn't understand but he obeyed, standing up and leading the others to follow in Abulaz's wake. Beyond the curtain they found a dissection chamber crammed with metal gurneys bearing flayed bodies. It was the strange corpses they had retrieved, stripped of their armour and weapons which had been discarded in a corner. Freed of their plate Kasarox could see the bodies were functionally Astartes but enlarged somehow, taller and with more muscle mass. In places skin had been peeled back to reveal the tendons and he could see that the sinews were merged with some form of metal coils.

Abulaz spread his arms to take in the chamber and declared, "I have been examining these bodies and seeking answers from the Pantheon. They tell me of secret labours in the depths of Mars, of forbidden experiments and millennia of research. It seems our hated foe seeks to match our majesty with new genetic tricks."

Kasarox dared to say, "So this work is not so new after all, they've been working on this since the Heresy?"

Abulaz lowered his arms and grinned, "I have learned of secret experiments and failures galore. The Neverborn whisper to me of Cursed Foundings and Dark Foundings, of a Martian Adept making mistakes and then fleeing when his failures turned on him. They whisper of him burning all the evidence and covering up his connections to Falcons of Fire, the Dragons of Black and others."

Raruma looked about and said, "How does it help us?"

Abulaz seemed to be in a generous mood for he replied, "These new fools think themselves perfect, they believe that all their flaws are eradicated but they know not what secrets lay within their blood. Chaos is in all things and no amount of genetic trickery can change that fact. We shall use that against them; turn their secret flaws into our weapons."

"How?" Kasarox enquired.

"We shall withdraw the Crooked Path, retreat to the depths and let this camp burn," Abulaz replied.

"Retreat?!" Kasarox spat in surprise.

"Watch your tone worm!" Vulak snarled but Abulaz waved him down.

The Dark Apostle drew in a breath and said, "These mortals are meaningless compared to the power at our fingertips. We shall withdraw and let the corpse-worshippers have their little victory, it shall avail them not. We shall rise from the ashes with divine power and sweep them away at the moment of their triumph. All I require is a subject to work my craft upon; I need one of these new Astartes alive and breathing."

Kasarox bowed his head but dared to point out, "The corpse-worshippers will grow suspicious if they win too easily."

Abulaz nodded distractedly and said, "Select our least worthy Brothers, the shallowest in devotion as a rear-guard. Their sacrifice will ensure our ascension. Now go oversee the evacuation of our true forces and do not return until you have a live prisoner for me."

Kasarox bowed and turned to leave but inside his hearts were seething. He was about to leave his own blood to die under loyalist guns, sacrificed as part of some devious scheme. He didn't want to do that, he wanted to stand and fight. He wanted a glorious victory to draw the attention of the Pantheon. Yet despite his misgivings Kasarox would obey, Abulaz was his lord and he could not disobey, no matter what.

As the trio left Abulaz looked upon his works. He ran an armoured digit over a gushing wound and then lifted it to peer at the congealed blood. He extended his tongue and licked the blood off his finger then grinned as he whispered, "They thought to hide their manipulations from me but the answer is to be found in the blood, it is always in the blood. Secrets and mysteries abound but the truth is plain for those with eyes to see. The only real question is: do these fools know of the deceit that lies within their own blood?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 12**

Death moved, sudden, unexpected and ferocious, a calamity that came from nowhere and consumed all. Fires and explosions were everywhere, erupting in the crowded camp and destroying all they touched. Bodies were flung high in the carnage, raining down in showers of broken flesh to create sickening parodies of rain. It was a vision of hell that would have made any mortal man sick to look upon, but to Ulysses it was glorious.

The Master of Sanctity roared as he swung his Crozius, the golden head of his weapon catching a cultist in the chest. The concussive energy discharged in a blast of power, blowing the filthy Heretic away in a heap of shattered bones. Ulysses was most satisfied to see the foe laid low but he did not pause in his slaughter, wading into the packed masses of cultists with his weapon ceaselessly striking left and right. All around him the Ashen Knights advanced, wading into the fray wielding their combat knives and the stocks of their bolt-rifle. The mortal scum flung themselves at the shining giants, scratching and clawing with chipped knives in a futile attempt to penetrate their armour but the Primaris Marines were undaunted. They strode through the fray with contemptuous disdain, breaking all before them.

Ulysses' hearts exulted at the slaughter, at seeing his Brothers-in-arms fulfilling the destiny with which the God-Emperor had purposed them. His spearhead had thrust through the city with unstoppable momentum and had been the first Imperial force to make it to the enemy camp. Ulysses had wasted not a moment but had launched an all-out assault, driving his forces into the heart of the foe with all their fury.

Everywhere Ulysses looked the Ashen Knights were wrecking slaughter, the Intercessors and Hellblasters forming an unbreakable spearhead of shining Ceramite that mowed down foes with ease. Behind them came the armoured support, Repulsors floating high so their weapons could fire down into the packed crowds. Onslaught Gatling cannons wrecked carnage and grenade launchers fired deep into the hordes of foes, slaughtering scores with every blast.

Yet the foe seemed undaunted, flinging themselves at the advancing spearhead with cries unto their filthy gods on their lips. They sought to drown the Primaris in bodies but they had not reckoned upon the Ashen Knight's most mighty Brother. At the very point of the spear loomed the majestic form of a Redemptor Dreadnought, Brother Crewel, the very latest innovation from the forges of Cawl. He waded through the throng with ease, breaking everything before him with a sweep of a mighty fist or blasts from a macro plasma incinerator.

Ulysses knew that Redemptors were not like the older models. These Dreadnoughts were the apex of mechanical potential and as such placed a terrible burden on their inhabitants. Not for them the long slow sleep of stasis, to be a Redemptor was to burn gloriously bright but also briefly. For this reason the Ashen Knights favoured not mighty heroes for internment but rather those who had fallen ingloriously or in disgrace. The Chapter bestowed these unfortunates with one last chance for glory in death and by the look of things Brother Crewel was determined to prove himself worthy of such trust.

Ulysses heard Elikos' voice cry aloud, "The scum fall before us!"

Ulysses raised his voice to reply, "None can resist the servants of the God-Emperor. Forward Ashen Knights and show no mercy, victory is within our grasp!"

With a furious roar the Ashen Knights surged forward, breaking bodies and ending lives with Transhuman might. Cultists swarmed from everywhere, spilling around ramshackle shacks and cages still filled with prisoners but the Primaris did not hesitate to engage. Ulysses joined them, bellowing catechisms of hatred and revulsion. The fight was going well and the Chaplain was assured once more of the superiority of the Emperor's servants. Surely none could match the Primaris in battle.

Just as the fight was reaching its apex Ulysses heard a tremendous explosion arising from afar. It was an echoing boom, matched by the thunder of bolters and it was coming from the north side of the camp. Ulysses grinned under his helm as he realised it could only be the attack of the Storm Heralds, notably arriving after the Ashen Knights had already attacked. Ulysses called out, "It seems our elderly forbears are struggling to keep up with us!"

Elikos called back joyously, "Too little, too late!"

Ulysses was reassured to know that his forces had claimed the glory of first blood but there was yet a battle to be won and countless foes to slaughter first. He redoubled his efforts, throwing himself at the packed foes and lashing out with all his might. They came at him in a wave of rags and flesh, their skin marked with hideous buboes and mutations galore. He saw faces with multiple eyes and masses of tentacles for mouths, teeth made of needles and some with heads of goats or flies. He met them all with his shining Crozius, hatred surging in his hearts as he cried, "Suffer not the Unclean to live Brothers!"

Once more the Ashen Knights advanced, crying their contempt for the foe. None could stand before them and with fury and fire they pushed into the centre of the camp. Then Ulysses saw it, through the jostling ranks of the foe he glimpsed a circle of black-clad zealots, all chanting continuously as they cut at their own flesh with ritual knives. They were surrounded by waves of distorting madness, that rose high above and formed a dark cloud over the camp.

Instinctively Ulysses knew that he was looking upon the heart of the Word Bearer's aerial cover, their protection from the skies. Yet if the Ashen Knights could break it then the camp would be laid bare to their waiting Overlord gunships. Ulysses shouted, "See the heart of the foe, we must tear it out!"

As one the Ashen Knights changed direction, veering towards the ritual circle. Yet before they could reach it a new foe entered the fray, a wave of Transhuman figures with gore-red armour and horns on their helms. The Word Bearers were here at last, fully two-score of them. The Word Bearers ran at the Ashen Knights, bellowing in a frenzy of rabid hate as they closed. Many Intercessors and Hellblasters tried to target them but the massed ranks of cultists blocked their shots and none could draw a bead upon them. The Traitors screamed, "For Lorgar!" and then the fighting became close and Ulysses' world shrank down to the knives coming at him.

The Master of Sanctity found himself confronted by a Traitor with two horns on his helm and a Daemon faced mask for a helm. No, this was no mask, it was his face, a nightmarish fusion of Ceramite and flesh that gnashed its teeth constantly. This could only be an Aspiring Champion of Chaos and he wielded two black swords, that trailed wisps of black smoke, with the skill born of millennia of practice.

Ulysses snarled as the blades came at his face but he dodged to one side, his upgraded sinew coils giving him startling speed. Yet the foe reacted instantly, swinging about to bring his twin blades around in a simultaneous sweep and stab. Ulysses deflected the stab with the haft of his Crozius, the golden mace flaring with power as it dissipated the unholy energy of the sword. Yet the other one tore across his bicep, parting Ceramite like it was parchment to draw enhanced blood. Ulysses hissed in surprise, never before had any blade cut through his armour so easily and his loathing for the vile filth soared to new heights of contempt. He kept his eyes upon his foe and circled warily to the right, as the melee raged around them. The Champion grinned and angled his twin blades towards Ulysses' hearts and then he pounced with a feral shriek.

Ulysses saw the blades coming but did not try to parry, instead he dove forwards, coming within the arc of their reach. The Chaos Marine was unprepared for so suicidal a move and the blades did nothing but score the Chaplain's flanks as he crashed into the Traitor. Instantly Ulysses shortened his grip on his Crozius' haft and then rammed it head first into the Champion's midriff.

Ulysses felt the reverberations of the blast rock him to the core but he gritted his teeth and refused to stagger. By contrast his opponent was almost doubled over by the blow, limping backwards with his belly amour caved in. Ulysses' free hand moved like lightning, coming up and then stabbing down, with his hand formed into a rigid point. He chopped downwards, catching the Traitor right behind the skull and shattering his spinal cord with one blow. Whatever mutations Chaos had inflicted the Heretic with did not seem to include a spare spinal cord and he collapsed bonelessly, dead before he hit the ground.

Ulysses looked around and saw the Ashen Knights fighting tooth and nail to bring down the Traitors. For all their treachery they had lost none of their skill and they fought in tight knots, holding back the superior numbers of the Primaris. Many Ashen Knights had fallen to the Heretic's foul weapons but more fought on, their resolution and zeal undaunted by the foe's accursed might. He saw Brother Crewel rampage into a knot of Heretics, his mighty fist bringing low any within reach.

Elsewhere he saw a Hellblaster take a knife to the guts, triggering his Belisarian Furnace. The Primaris screamed as his body flooded with a cocktail of hyper-stimulants and threw his attacker away. Ulysses saw him slide his Plasma Incinerator into a supercharged state of excitation and then dive into a knot of crimson-clad foes, one second before his weapon overloaded. The scene was suddenly backlit as a flare of purest light erupted, turning the Chaos Marines into silhouettes that cast out long shadows behind their melting forms.

Ulysses' autosenses dimmed for a moment and when they cleared the Traitors were nought but ash, leaving a huge hole in their line. The Chaplain saw opportunity unfold before him and dove into the gap, racing to reach the chanting cultists. The filthy wretches were oblivious to the doom approaching and did not even react as he lifted his Crozius and cut them down, killing each one in but a moment. With the zealot's deaths the distorting waves of power vanished and the skies cleared overhead. Elated Ulysses lifted his voice and cried, "Behold providence unfold, the God-Emperor sends his wrath on wings of fire!"

As if in response to his cry the horizon suddenly filled with the contours of half-a-dozen Overlord gunships, flying low and at great speed. They had been waiting for this moment, disdaining the aerial battle above in favour of holding back for the true battle. They were swift and deadly predators of the sky, irresistible harbingers of doom that would not be turned from their course.

With an ear-splitting shriek the Overlords boomed overhead, their wings dropping lines of incendiary bombs into the heart of the camp. blossoms of fire chased them as they whooshed by and anything they passed over died moments later. Cultists screamed as the fire took them, they wailed and cried unto their Daemonic masters but nothing could hold back the conflagration and they died in droves.

Ulysses felt the heat and the wind of the bombardment buffet him but the pilot's skill was superb and their run passed by without scorching a single loyalist warrior. The heart of the Traitor's army was obliterated in one pass and Ulysses felt a triumphant laugh escape his lips at the sight of the God-Emperor's work being done. The cultists were reduced to screaming, flaming pillars that ran to and fro, only those on the perimeter escaping instant destruction. They turned their backs and ran, fleeing into the ruins of the city in a vain attempt to escape their doom. Meanwhile Ulysses saw his Ashen Knights finishing off the last of the Word Bearers and called, "The God-Emperor favours us brethren, we are victorious!"

From the crowd emerged Elikos who cautioned, "Be not too quick to celebrate, the foes remain numerous and they seek to flee."

Ulysses tempered his elation with prudence and took a moment to centre his humours. He drew in a breath and called, "Indeed, this task is not done until every last Heretic is dead. Come Brothers, let us hunt down the last of this scum and dedicate our kills to the glory of the Golden Throne!"


	13. Chapter 13

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 13**

The mound of flesh quivered before him, a putrid mass of mouths and tentacles, sickening to look upon. It was melted in places and burnt all over, a stinking mass of skin and muscle. Eyes blinked in that heaving pile while random claws waved in agony and madness, still trying to kill even now. It was on the verge of death but still dangerous.

Toran looked upon the burnt Chaos Spawn and a sneer crept over his unhelmed face, he gripped his sword tightly and then drove it into the centre of the quivering pile. A sharp snick and spray of black blood announced the sword driving deeply within the creature and then at last it went limp as it died. Toran withdrew his relic sword and grimaced as he saw the filthy blood staining its noble length. He fluttered the power field to clean its metal and muttered a litany of thanks for its noble service.

With his weapon's spirit appeased the Captain looked up, seeing his Storm Heralds at work. Everywhere Astartes, Primaris and PDF soldiers were clearing the Word Bearer's camp, dispatching surviving cultists, dismantling their heathen shrines and foul sacrificial pits. Cleansing flames were being liberally applied to remove the stains upon this world while squads chased fleeing cultists. Here and there a crimson-clad corpse was unearthed, these were unceremonially burned, not for the Traitors the respect of a dignified death.

Toran saw a picture of brisk efficiency, the model clearing a battlefield yet to an experienced eye the Storm Herald's ire was clear to see. They were brusque and impatient, resentment and sullenness evident in their glances and Toran understood the cause all too well. The Storm Heralds had moved with great speed, racing to be the first to reach the foe, they had pushed themselves to the limit but despite their ardour they had arrived second. The Ashen Knights had reached the foe first and driven into the heart of the foe, claiming the lion's share of the glory first blood. This was no small insult to any Astartes and Toran didn't like the implication that his Space Marines couldn't keep up.

Toran was distracted by the sight of Chaplain Furion, who was granting last rites to a fallen Space Marine while Apothecary Memnos harvested his gene-seed. It was Brother Vallar, who had fallen with all honour. The attack may have been successful but it had not been without cost, the Word Bearers had fought back hard and reaped a tally even in death. Three Initiates had fallen and several honoured vehicles had been damaged, yet they had died in victory and such a thing was not to be belittled.

Toran let the pair conclude their rites and then approached saying formally, "Brothers, how fares the lost? "

Memnos shook his head, the sweat on his tonsured scalp glistening as he said, "Their gene-seed is secured, their legacies shall live on."

Furion too had removed his helm and intoned solemnly, "Their names shall be recorded in the Scrolls of Honour, the Chapter shall ever remember them."

Toran bowed his head in respect and then said, "We shall remember them but we cannot dawdle, countless worlds await our aid. I am sure the Ashen Knights will leave soon and so should we."

Furion glanced to the side and then stepped closer to whisper, "Captain, that may be premature… something is off."

Toran frowned in confusion and inquired, "What do you mean?"

Furion chewed upon it for a second then said, "This victory… it was too easy."

"Easy!" Memnos spat, "You call three dead Brothers easy?"

"Against Traitor Marines… yes," Furion stated, "They had us on the run for weeks, we could barely slow them down and yet they fell at the first counter-offensive. I expected dozens of dead Brothers, not three."

Toran mused upon it and said, "Perhaps the Traitors were not expecting the assault of two Chapters, strange as they are, our new cousins did break the back of this host."

"Then why hasn't the Chaos Cruiser fled?" Furion countered, "It's still up there, sulking the orbital lanes and avoiding combat. I cannot offer any evidence but every instinct I have tells me something is wrong here."

That gave Toran pause, the Chaplain was a veteran and as such his instincts carried great weight. Slowly the Captain mused, "I suppose we can wait a few days to secure the city, clearing out the taint of Chaos is a most serious duty. I will dispatch patrols to search the area while we cleanse this city."

"Speaking of which," Memnos said, "What is happening over there?"

Toran turned to look and spied a disturbance in the ranks. A squad of Initiates were standing guard over the captives, those taken prisoner by the Word Bearers. Unfortunately the Space Marines were not here to liberate them for they were stern and zealous in their duty, not letting the mortals so much as speak. They were being overseen by Librarian Arvael and Terminator Sergeant Orath, who were making sure the captives were all rounded up. Yet the cause of the disturbance was coming from another group of mortals, a mix of civilians and PDF troopers, led by First-Sheriff Karsa and Lord-Provost Orvius.

"Warp Hells," Memnos muttered, "What are they doing here?"

Furion remarked, "I knew the PDF was trailing behind us, but what is the civilian governor playing at?"

"We need to find out," Toran said and strode over to investigate.

As they approached Toran heard Orvius shouting, "For the last time you have no right to deny us, stand aside!"

Orath growled back, "Do not test me little man, I could break your whole army with one hand tied behind my back."

Toran hurried over then barked, "What is going on here?!"

Lord-Provost Orvius turned and snapped, "Finally, tell these ruffians to stand down and let us tend to the needy."

Fiercely Arvael growled, "That's not going to happen."

Toran was getting irritated now and commanded, "Explain, now."

Thankfully Karsa stepped in and said, "My Lord, these men and women are citizens of Sucaris and as such fall under our jurisdiction. We insist that they are released into our care."

"Look at them," Orvius pleaded, "For Throne's sake look at their suffering, they've been through hell already. Let us feed them and give them blankets!"

Toran was stunned and he couldn't believe the naivety on display, didn't these mortals understand the situation here? Didn't they grasp the danger they were in by merely standing here? Toran drew in a breath and explained, "With sorrow I cannot allow that, none of your people will speak to the prisoners. If you attempt to communicate with them in any way my hand will be forced, I will have to kill you."

Orvius' face went red and he cried, "So much for your promises! You swore to protect our world and our culture; you gave us your word!"

Suddenly Furion uttered, "Lord-Provost, we are protecting your world, we are protecting it from the taint of Chaos and the Inquisition's wrath. You don't seem to understand that we face a moral threat and these souls have been directly exposed to it. There is no telling what Heresies they witnessed, what foulness has crept into their minds. Not a single one of these unfortunates can be released; if even one of them has embraced Chaos then they could doom your entire world."

Orvius swallowed and said, "You don't mean to…"

Arvael was stern and unforgiving as he proclaimed, "There can be no compromise with Chaos, no half-measures when it comes to the Warp. Better that a thousand innocents die than one Heretic is freed to spread corruption. The seed of Chaos has been sown here and we must burn it out."

Orvius seemed aghast and pleaded, "But you promised…"

Furion explained, "We swore to protect your innocents and the uncorrupted. It gives us no pleasure to do this but it must be done. Chaos cannot be allowed to spread; your people's only hope is for us to be merciless now. This duty is hard but it must be bourn for the sake of all."

At that point Karsa stated, "He is right, you and I are privileged enough to know of the existence of the enemy but the common man is not. The Imperium will not suffer any trace of Chaos to remain, as it is the Inquisition will be conducting a thorough purge. They must see that we are willing to do anything to remove the infection or this world will be subjected to the Exterminatus."

Orvius looked distressed and said, "So we just leave them for the Inquisition?"

"No," Toran replied, "We are not so cruel as to leave them to the torture of the Inquisition. Squad: stand ready."

Instantly the Initiates turned on their heels and brought up their bolters. Orvius's eyes widened but the captives seemed too dazed to respond as Toran drew his own pistol and commanded, "Fire!"

There was a brief roar of bolters discharging and then silence fell, each life ended by a single bolt-shell. Toran felt no joy at this but duty was duty, for the sake of the uncorrupted these deeds had to be done. The Storm Heralds fought to protect humanity but there were limits to their mercy and the risk of corruption could not be tolerated. Toran sheathed his pistol and saw Orvius looking like he was going to be sick. The Lord-Provost was shaking and said, "That was the worst thing I've ever seen."

Orath snorted, "Don't get out much do you? This was nothing compared to what's out there, lurking in the dark between the stars."

Sometimes Toran really wanted to punch Orath but he bit down on that impulse and consolingly stated, "If you must hate someone blame the enemy, this was their doing not ours."

Orvius turned his back on the piles of dead, which were being cleared away by the Initiates and looked away. He drew in a breath and said, "So much has been desecrated by the archenemy. Look at what they have done to this place, this was the square of the three-thousand Martyrs, the most revered site on Sucaris."

Arvael stepped up and said, "Who were they?"

Toran was surprised by the sudden change in tone but he saw a cunning glint in the Librarian's eye and realised Arvael was keeping the mortal talking, rather than let him dwell on his grief. Orvius couldn't resist reciting ancient lore and he expounded, "Why, the blessed scholars Krammer, Latima and Riddey. When Richelaw the Tyrant Cardinal of Sacellum, came to this world they refused to bend the knee and their whole households were burned at the stake. Sebastian Thor himself praised their devotion and bid this world to forever dedicate its scholarship to their memory."

Arvael put a hand on Orvius' shoulder and led him away saying, "I've read of Richelaw, wasn't he killed by an assassin?"

"I don't know where you read that," Orvius remarked as they walked off with the rest of the mortals in tow, "Any decent historitor will tell you following Thor's ascension to Ecclesiarch he offered the Tyrant Cardinal a choice: a crushing defeat in battle or a quiet life of contemplation on Terra. Surprisingly he chose a comfortable retirement in luxury than face justice for the billions of people he had persecuted throughout the Saint Karyl Trail. It was quite contentious; let me tell you of the subsequent riots…"

Toran watched them go, discussing ancient history and heard Memnos mutter, "It was a mistake to allow them to come here."

Furion remarked, "They have lived a sheltered life but we should not scorn them. The Emperor created us to fight the monsters in the dark so humanity would not have to. Our purpose is to protect the innocent, even from themselves."

Memnos said thoughtfully, "We sheltered the civilians from taint but what of the fighting men? They've seen too much."

Orath snorted, "I know how the Inquisition thinks, there will be celebrations and triumphs of victory, and then remarkably fast a draught for the Imperial Guard will be announced. Most of these soldiers will soon find themselves fighting wars across the stars, falling one by one until none are left. It will be called glorious but either way, anybody of insufficient rank who saw the enemy will be dead. "

Toran sighed, sometimes victory could be as unpalatable as defeat but such was the law of the Imperium. He drew in a breath and said, "We saved a world and billions of innocents, focus on that. Now let us tend to our duties, I want to make sure not a single Word Bearer escaped our wrath before we depart."


	14. Chapter 14

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 14**

The camp echoed with the wails of the damned and the fearful pleading of broken enemies. Cultists lay everywhere amid the burning wreckage of war machines and filthy barracks. They wept at their abandonment by their cruel gods while nursing injuries or pretending to be dead. It made no difference for the Ashen Knights were ruthless and methodical in their prosecution of the foe. They swept the encampment end to end, making sure not a single foe survived. With them went teams of Munitorum priests, the holy men blessing the armour of fallen Brothers and anointing them so the God-Emperor would see that they had died in a state of blessed devotion. Meanwhile mortal chattels went to and fro, collecting the weapons and armour of the dead.

Standing in the midst of all the activity Ulysses looked upon the work of his brethren and was pleased. With the battle over Ulysses was touring the camp, speaking to his Brothers, offering guidance and affirmations where they were needed and comforting the dying. The Ashen Knights were being diligent and merciless, their devotion to their duties impeccable and beyond fault. The Master of Sanctity was satisfied that not a single enemy would be spared their just executions and that the God-Emperor's will would be done.

Ulysses spared a second to glance up and saw the skies clearing, the Word Bearers had been defeated and their aerial assets had fled. Reports were that the cultist crewed aircraft had flown far before ejecting, in a vain attempt to save their own lives. The Helldrakes however had scurried to distant mountain ranges, where they could avoid pursuit for years. It hardly mattered, their strength had been broken and the last remnants could be moped up by the Imperial Guard.

The thought of that made Ulysses snarl, depending upon the weaknesses of mortal men rubbed ill at him. It had been this world's lack of piety that had brought their doom upon them, the filthy Heretics were doubtless drawn here by the people's apathetic and lacklustre faith. They had grown feeble in their indolence; content to let others fight their wars for them and so become an open and inviting target. The Ashen Knights understood that it was every man's first duty to fight for the God-Emperor and that to die in his service was a far finer fate than other.

As Ulysses walked he saw Elikos tending to his labours, his canopic jars heavy with salvaged Gene-seed. The Practici saw him coming and stood up, leaving the corpse of an Intercessor to be tended by mortal priests. Ulysses looked upon him and enquired, "How fare your labours?"

Elikos shook out a Knick from his neck and said, "Slowly, we lost a dozen Brothers in this attack, the Traitors did not fall easily."

Ulysses assured him, "They are with the God-Emperor, He will shower them with glory."

Elikos paused and then said, "I am reluctant to admit it but the attack would have been far more costly were it not for the old Astartes. They drew away a significant portion of the enemy at just the right moment."

Ulysses replied dismissively, "They played their part, but it was the Ashen Knights who drew first blood."

Elikos smirked then and commented, "I'd wager that they hate that fact."

Ulysses nodded in agreement, "They seem to think because they've been doing this longer that makes them better than us. They could use being taken down a peg; their diffident custodianship let this world slide into weakness and apathy. Perhaps now they will see the kind of strength it takes to protect humanity."

"They have been far too lenient," Elikos agreed, "They have forgotten that a moment of laxity spawns a lifetime of Heresy."

Ulysses' next comment was cut off as he spied the massive bulk of a war machine entering the encampment. Uniquely among the Ashen Knights' machines it was a tracked vehicle, its heavy rumble making the ground shake. Its long flanks boasted quad-barrelled Lascannons and it had an extended assault ramp on its front. It was the Crusader Queen, transport of Lord-Marshall Achilles and it scattered priests and chattels before it.

Ulysses watched as the Spartan tank ground to a halt and in his heart a tiny flicker of smugness shone forth that the Lord-Marshall was only arriving after the fighting was done. He quashed the unworthy thought with an impulse, the scorch marks on the tanks told of heavy fighting in the city and Achilles was not the type to leave the battlefield while one enemy still drew breath.

The Master of Sanctity and Practici marched over and saw the assault ramp grinding down. Achilles strode out of the interior before it had even touched down, the mighty blade Despoiler sheathed at his hip. The Lord-Marshall saw them coming and waited for them to approach, they saluted with the Aquila and Ulysses uttered, "Hail Achilles."

Achilles reached up and lifted free his helm, his face was stern and unforgiving he said, "Ulysses, you are here first it seems."

Ulysses nodded and remarked, "Couldn't you keep up?"

Suddenly a broad grin broke out over Achilles face and he extended his hand proclaiming, "Well done my friend, you claimed all the glory. Couldn't have done it better myself."

Ulysses grinned too and took the hand, knowing his lord meant every word. The Master of Sanctity stated, "We could have used your presence here."

"You managed fine without me," Achilles said, "Besides there were matters that had to be addressed in the city."

Ulysses' curiosity was peaked and he followed the Lord-Marshall back into the dark of the Crusader Queen's interior. Inside he found a most surprising display, a mortal man bound hand and foot and whimpering through a gag. Sat beside him was a large leather satchel, filled to the brim with books. Ulysses was confused and said, "What is this?"

Achilles was grim as he explained, "The Reivers we had scouting throughout the city found this mortal grubbing about in the archives and the spoor of many others too."

"Mortals?" Elikos said in confusion, "They are all confined to the west, on the other side of the river. Save for the local soldiers no mortal should be in the eastern city, what is he doing here?"

Achilles snarled, "He and others like him stole over the river and crept into the archives, they seemed to be trying to save books. To take them back to the safety of the western city."

"They save books while their world burns," Elikos spat in surprise, "They have the archenemy knocking at their gates and they think to save books?"

"We knew this world was weak, but this is beyond the pale," Ulysses growled, "They have been led astray by material concerns and forgotten that the service of the God-Emperor must be the first concern of every man. What were the Storm Heralds thinking to allow such a hotbed of sedition to fester under their noses? This planet's fall from grace was not only tragic, it was inevitable."

Sternly Achilles stated, "This planet is rotten to the core, it fosters weakness and doubt in the Emperor. This is intolerable, we must ensure the rot is cut out and replaced with a healthy and strong spirit. It seems our presence here was more desperately needed than we realised."

Elikos picked up a tome and thumbed through it saying, "This appears to be a book of mathematics and other sanctioned knowledge. I don't see anything actually heretical in this."

Ulysses grimaced and said, "One must serve the Master of Mankins with all their heart and soul or be condemned. These people's first thought should have been their duty unto the God-Emperor, instead they craved secular knowledge. They have failed the test utterly, none on this world fought Chaos hard enough. Such feebleness of spirit must be burned out; it is our duty to correct this deviancy."

Elikos frowned and said, "I agree an example must be made but how far are will willing to take this? There are no signs of corruption, only books."

"I've seen firsthand the evil caused by a book," Ulysses growled, "Remember Colchis?"

That brought a sudden silence for Colchis had been the Ashen Knight's first operation, a most harrowing test of their skills. In the darkness and confusion of the Noctis Aeterna a band of Word Bearers had attempted to steal back to their burned homeworld, ten thousand years dead. They had sought to recreate the well-spring of their Heresy, to undo their just punishment. The Traitors had compelled millions of slaves to raise up the ruined cities and worked them unto death until their foul banners flew over a mockery of an Imperial world.

This affront to the God-Emperor had been met with a ferocious assault. The Ashen Knights had fallen upon them with fire and steel, killing every Heretic and Traitor they had found. The rebuilt cities had been cast down, the heretical libraries burnt and the Word Bearers decimated. They had tried to fight back with hordes of Daemons and accursed magics, using their foul powers to bind the accursed creatures into the piles of the dead. The Ashen Knights had been confronted by millions of sun-bleached corpses, throwing themselves mindless upon the guns of the loyalists. Yet the Primaris had been relentless and had kept on fighting until the last corpse was destroyed and the last Chaos Marine had fallen. Though the details of the operation were sealed at the highest levels, those who were there still counted it as their finest hour and they were proud to have brought the judgement of the Emperor upon His foes.

Achilles fixed Ulysses with a fierce stare and said, "We do not talk of Colchis… but you are right. This world is too weak to survive on its own; it must be set right before we can leave. This world must be saved from itself, else it will slide back into sin once we are gone."

"What are your commands?" Elikos asked.

Achilles drew himself up and proclaimed, "We shall send squads into the western city, any survivors are to be rounded up and brought to us. No resistance will be tolerated; any who defy us, defy the will of the God-Emperor. We shall set up internment camps in the east, where we can keep the people secure. Our munitorum priests shall move among them, showing them the proper way to live while we weed out the weak-willed leaders who led this world astray."

Elikos paused and said, "You intend to purge them?"

Ulysses growled, "They have led this world into apathy and diffidence. We shall make an example of them, they must pay the price for their failures, for allowing sin to promulgate."

"Not only that," Achilles declared, "The Reivers shall go forth to scour the libraries and archives, searching out anything that does not promote reverence of the Emperor and destroy it. First this city and then the others. Maybe when they see their precious trinkets burning these people will realise the depths of their mistake."

Elikos nodded in acceptance but inquired, "What of this one?"

Ulysses looked upon the cowering mortal and stepped forward, the man's eyes filled with desperation and he pleaded through his gag but the Chaplain was unmoved. This mortal had failed to meet the standards expected by the Ashen Knights and there could be no mercy for such wretches. Ulysses loomed over the man and proclaimed, "You are guilty of failing to fight hard enough for the God-Emperor, you have allowed yourself to be led astray by tawdry material concerns. You set knowledge before the worship of the God-Emperor and so forsook your right to live. May He have mercy upon your soul for we cannot."

With that Ulysses' fist flashed out, he disdained to use his Crozius for this, his fist was enough. The man's head crumpled in a spray of blood and bone and he keeled over, his head caved in. Ulysses wiped the stain off his gauntlet and said, "This is the fate of all who fail the God-Emperor., none shall escape His sight.

Achilles nodded and proclaimed, "Then let the purge begin, the Ashen Knights will tear down this rotten old order and replace it with a shining beacon of fidelity to the God-Emperor."


	15. Chapter 15

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 15**

The dark lay before him, gloomy and still. It was not the rich darkness of the void, where cold and indifferent rocks spun in eternal uncaring orbits. Neither was it the insane darkness of the Immaterium, where fanged monstrosities born from humanity's earliest nightmares dwelt. It could not even claim to be the darkness of a moonless night, where men shuddered in fear of the predators in the shadows. No this darkness was dull, uninspired and dank, a feeble gloom all too easily dispelled.

Kasarox thought upon this as he pressed forwards, his enhanced eyes penetrating the dim twilight with ease. He was currently deep underground, proceeding up a dripping sewer while his army hid in the depths of the city's underbelly. It would surprise many to learn that dreaming spires of Oreilla floated on a network of sewers and catacombs, but humanity had not changed in forty thousand years and every Imperial city harboured a vast network of underground spaces.

The Word Bearers had withdrawn the bulk of their forces underground shortly before the hated loyalists had arrived at their camp. Slipping away to avoid retribution under a cover of sorcery to blind the probing Librarians, who must assuredly be above. At Abulaz's command the cultist scum had been abandoned, but it hardly mattered. They were easily replaceable and more than willing to die in service to Chaos, thinking that they would be rewarded in the afterlife. Even Kasarox found that laughable, as if the powers of Chaos would bother to reward such scum as them. Chaos favoured the strong, for the weak and the stupid there was only scorn.

Still the indignities piled upon his own forces were hardly going to attract the favour of the pantheon. The mighty sons of Lorgar had been forced to scurry away, retreating and hiding as their foes rampaged freely. The squads of Brethren had obeyed their orders sullenly, their resentment clear to see but their obedience unbreakable. The Daemon Engines had been a different matter entirely though, they had required chaining down with rune-encrusted fetters before being dragged into hiding. The Helldrakes Kasarox had given up as a lost cause, their spirits too wild and untameable to repress. He had let them fly free, praying that their flight would convince the corpse-worshippers that the war was really over.

The thought of their foes, strutting about over their heads, made Kasarox snarl and he drove his fist into the wall, breaking brickwork with ease. He heard a tutting noise behind him and turned to see Raruma standing there, grinning like a loon. The two of them were alone in the tunnel, the rest of the advance party being spread out through various surrounding tunnels. The Possessed Marine's faceplate contorted like a living thing and in two voices he asked, "Did the wall offend you?"

Kasarox snarled, "Not now Mocker, I am not in the mood for your jests."

Raruma pouted and asked, "Something vexes thee?"

Kasarox spat, "Everything does, we should be killing loyalist scum right now, not hiding in the dark."

Raruma looked at him for a long moment then pressed, "Do I detect a note of discontent with our orders?"

Kasarox snarled at that but his anger was shallow. He did indeed resent his mission, leading a half-dozen squads to grab one of the new Marines for Abulaz's rituals. He did not know what the Dark Apostle intended, such mysteries were above his station, he could only trust in his lord and pray for the favour of the pantheon to fall upon them. Still it rubbed him wrong, he wanted to fight and win glory. He wanted to draw the attention of the Primordial Truth with bloody acts of slaughter, marching forth with the banners of woe flying high. Instead he was here, grubbing in the dark.

Kasarox forced his anger down and said, "Abulaz has spoken and his word is law, it is not my place to question him."

Raruma cocked his head and asked, "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" Kasarox sighed.

"Put yourself down," Raruma elaborated, "You have the brains and the skills to lead, if you were in command we would have won this war already. You shouldn't be listening to Abulaz he should be listening to you."

Icily Kasarox hissed, "You speak blasphemy."

"I speak the truth and you know it," Raruma proclaimed, "The gene-seed of Lorgar encourages dogmatic obedience but it cannot erase your personality. Somewhere in your soul you know you are more worthy than he."

"I am not worthy," Kasarox sighed, "Chaos has not blessed me."

"Chaos rewards those who take what they desire," Raruma declared, "The only thing standing in your way is your subservience to Abulaz. You're holding yourself back but you could be so much more."

With that the Possessed Marine strode past him, headed deeper into the sewer. Kasarox trailed along in his wake, his mind churning. All his life he had sought the favour of the Pantheon but never had he considered that the rewards of Chaos were seized not granted. Some part of him rejected the notion, he was unworthy, he must be but another part of him couldn't stop thinking of all times he had been held back by Abulaz's word. For the first time he wondered, could that have been deliberate, had Abulaz held him back on purpose?

Suddenly Raruma stopped before a dark opening in the wall and then suddenly dashed inside. Kasarox blinked in surprise, this wasn't part of the plan and he activated his Power Fist in wariness. Yet from the dark interior came a voice, "No need for that, we only want to talk."

Kasarox was mystified, that wasn't Raruma's voice and he edged around the corner to peer beyond. What he saw appeared to be a large sump, lit by stab-lights and filled to knee height with rainwater. Standing in that sump were a half-dozen Word Bearers, all with their weapons lowered. Kasarox blinked in surprise as he recognised numerous squad leaders and one of the Anointed Terminators.

Kasarox called from cover, "What is this?"

A voice came back, "A parlay, by the Codas of lost Colchis we offer security and silence. Nothing said here will be repeated elsewhere."

Kasarox was suspicious but those were the hallowed codes of the Legion, as close to unbreakable as it was possible to get. He inched inside and looked about, taking in the armour markings and matching names. There was Burronox of the Anointed and Talo'kar the butcher. Hezhr and Rhzeh, twins blade-masters who had slaughtered millions and Ulreaner the Deamon-Smith. Last of all was Festerlax, the fleshweaver and keeper of genic lore. None of these warriors had been assigned to the advance party and they should not have been here.

Kasarox looked about and accusingly stated, "You lured me here, on purpose."

Raruma grinned and replied, "We needed a quiet word, about your future."

"My future," Kasarox snarled, "You should be more concerned about your own futures. When Abulaz hears of this…"

Suddenly Burronox spoke, "Abulaz is an incompetent fool, he couldn't fight off a Gretchin. Only that simpering spy Vulak keeps him in power and we've made sure he is busy elsewhere."

Talo'kar snarled, "Abulaz is weak, he leads us only to failure and retreat. He shames us before the Pantheon, he must die."

Kasarox gasped, "Blasphemy, Abulaz is the Dark Apostle."

"Oh wake up," Raruma spat, "Everybody knows he is a fool, we've all been waiting for you to kill him for centuries and assume command but you just didn't seem to want to get on with it. So we agreed you needed a little push."

"Me?" Kasarox spluttered, "Nobody would follow me, I am the Unhallowed. Everybody scorns me."

Festerlax shook his head and said, "Who told you that: Vulak? We don't scorn you, we admire you. You have ever fought with us, you lead us in glorious battle while Abulaz skulks about. You have earned our respect a thousand times over."

Hezhr said, "When we stormed the cathedrals of Torilla, it was you who took the Cardinal's head and smote a thousand weeping preachers."

Rhzeh added, "In the trenches of Karribda you were right at the front, fighting tooth and nail. The blood of Guilliman's whelps soaked us all head to toe, save for Abulaz, he was nowhere to be seen. We'd have followed you anywhere that day, even right up to the Dark Apostle's tent to cheer as you took his head."

Kasarox's mind was spinning, he had never realised his kin thought of him as some mighty conqueror. He couldn't understand what they were saying and cried, "This is a test, you seek to trick me. You try to make me speak against Abulaz, the conqueror of ten thousand worlds, the butcher of Calth!"

Ulreaner glanced at Raruma and said, "You never told him?"

Raruma drew in a breath and his voice faded to normal tones as he said, "There's something you should know about Calth. It didn't exactly play out the way Abulaz has told you, it wasn't the Ultramarines who got slaughtered that day… it was us."

"What?" Kasarox cried in stunned horror, "But we killed millions!"

Angrily Burronox spat, "Mere millions when we should have killed billions. Calth wasn't meant to cripple the accursed XIIIth Legion it was meant to annihilate them, to break their souls and grind them into dust. Guilliman was supposed to die, his head was meant to be on a pike, instead he turned the tables on us."

Ulreaner continued, "For twenty-three hours we cut them down and then in only one Guilliman repaid us ten-fold. Somehow he organised a multi-vector counterattack while under full Legion assault and an orbital bombardment and while we were reeling from that he seized back the planetary defence grid. The orbital barrages killed us in droves, he didn't waste a second in displays of power or showboating, he just reaped our lives like wheat before a scythe. Ships were exploding in the heavens, our glorious fleet cut to ribbons."

Raruma continued, "Abulaz saw the tables turning and hastily teleported us back to our ship. We ran with our tail between our legs back to the bosom of Lorgar but we were not greeted warmly for our failure."

Kasarox couldn't believe it, this revelation turned his world upside down and all he could do was splutter, "But… Erebus and Kor Phareon."

Raruma snorted, "Those two snakes managed to worm their way back into Lorgar good graces but not the rest of us. Abulaz was smart enough to know his skin was marked for the sacrificial block and chose to flee before they came for him. He took the Crooked Path into the stars and never looked back."

Kasarox gasped, "But what of the Dark Council?"

Raruma snorted, "We haven't contacted the Legion in millennia, I'd be surprised if the council Dark Apostles even know we're alive. The Crooked Path is on its own, we always have been, scraping whatever we can steal and begging baubles from the Gods."

"We've had enough," Burronox growled, "We want glory and victory; we want power and divine favour. Abulaz has led us poorly; we want a real leader and if you won't do it then we'll find someone else."

Kasarox's head was spinning and yet a part of him was far from displeased at the revelation. It was like a dam had broken in his mind and let out a flood of understanding. He suddenly realised that he had long harboured doubts as to the Dark Apostle's abilities, but he had repressed them with thoughts of his own unworthiness. Kasarox had served devotedly for centuries and all his lord had given in return was scorn. Like a flash of lightning he suddenly saw that his lack of blessings were not his own fault, it was Abulaz who had held him back.

Kasarox looked around at the circle of faces and then asked, "How many are we?"

Raruma grinned at the acceptance and answered, "More than half the host."

"Only half," Kasarox spat, "That won't do."

"But…" Raruma protested.

"No," Kasarox cut him off, "You want me to lead then we do this my way, precise and successfully. Abulaz is not without power, we need to learn his weakness."

Raruma asked, "So what do we do?"

Kasarox looked at his new co-conspirators and explained, "For now we play along with his plan, return to your posts and await my word. Speak of this to no one, not even among yourselves and remember this: it is not he who shoots first that wins wars but he who shoots the right target."


	16. Chapter 16

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 16**

The cacophony of war had at last stopped over Oriella, the fires guttering out as the last sporadic bursts of violence settled down. Here and there knots of cultists were holding out, desperately lurking in ruined buildings but they were few and far between. Platoons of PDF soldiers rooted them out one by one and gunned them down, before dragging the corpses away to be burned. Munitorum priests followed in the soldier's wake, blessing the streets and buildings. Inch by inch the city was consecrated and cleansed of taint, a task that would surely take years but one that nobody would baulk from. The taint of Chaos was being excised from the Collegium-city and Imperial rule was being restored, nothing could be allowed to interfere with that.

Elsewhere another type of activity was being enacted, the busy industry of an Astartes base being packed up. Everywhere lines of serfs shifted munitions and loaded equipment into waiting Thunderhawk transporters. Prefabricated chapel-barracks and armouries were being folded up while orbital-drop plasma reactors were carefully blessed and sent into slumber. A constant line of cargo-lifters removed the base section by section while a huge Heavy-lifter grasped the mobile Fortress-Stronghold in its claws and blasted off the ground, headed back into orbit. It was the picture of an efficient and well-practised routine, honed by millennia of repetition and Toran was satisfied by it.

The Third Captain looked upon the Storm Herald's base and checked all was in order. In truth his presence was hardly required, the serfs completely able to discharge their duties without supervision. Still it made him glad to see the task being performed so diligently, it was a sign of a vigorous logistics system that he was sure would match the vaunted Ultramarines for efficiency.

The thought of other Chapters cast a pall upon his spirit, for the Ashen Knights had been far from accommodating. Since the victory they had barely exchanged a word with the Storm Heralds, keeping themselves aloof and distant. Toran found such behaviour condescending and snide but then he was willing to admit his experience was limited. In his hundred and twenty years of fighting the Emperor's wars he had only met two other loyalist Chapters and they had been totally different in every conceivable way.

Perhaps this was normal behaviour for the Ashen Knights but the lack of Brotherhood still rubbed Toran wrong. Or perhaps it was the fact that they had stolen the lion's share of the glory that sat ill with him. Either way the existence of these Primaris Marines boded ill for the future, if they were the shape of the future then he was not sure he liked it.

Toran sighed and shook out his neck, his augmetic eye crackling with static at the sudden movement. He drew in a breath and then stepped inside a barracks, one of the few not being packed up already. Inside he found his circle of advisors, the Command Squad, with Furion, Memnos and Arvael as well as Terminator Sergeant Orath. They were all standing around a Hololithic table, arguing about various details. Several of them were standing in a corner while his command squad were all jostling for the controls of the Hololith. The table was projecting a map of the sector, the long ribbon of Imperial worlds that was known as the Saint Karyl Trail.

Toran cleared his throat and said, "What's this?"

Everybody straightened up and made the sign of the Aquila and then Novak's burnt face split with a grin and he said, "We are just debating our next deployment."

Toran was well used to his Champion's glib attitude and inquired, "What are your conclusions?"

Persion replied, "We have one hundred and fifty-three Astropathic distress calls outstanding. I say we head for Almanium, they are beset by Xeno pirates, we could easily drive them back into the Heraculan Deeps."

Novak shook his head and said, "That report is eighteen months out of date, we should head for Sacellum. A rebellion has erupted on the shrine world; we could be there in weeks."

Jediah spoke up, "Leave that weak scum for the Sisters of Battle. We should sail for Glaeba, there's never a shortage of Orks there. My blade has tasted nothing but foul Heretics, I yearn for greenskin blood."

Orath loomed over the table in his Tactical Dreadnought plate and said, "Patrols of the Serrati Stellas report unusual movements, that's usually a sign something really nasty is brewing. We could purge the area before it spills out into Imperial space."

Toran could see this breaking out into an argument but noticed that his Chaplain had not said a word. Toran looked over and said, "Furion, you seem quiet."

Furion looked thoughtful and he mused, "I still think leaving is premature, there's something not right here."

Memnos grimaced and said, "We can't waste any more time, our sweeps found nothing. Countless worlds cry out for our aid yet we sit here idle."

Furion wouldn't relent and said, "Then why hasn't the Chaos Cruiser left? It's still lurking around up there, staying out of gun range but refusing to retreat. Why hasn't it fled?"

Orath snorted, "Who cares? Chaos is madness; the Imperial Navy can run it down, when those laggards finally show up that is. This planet is secure, we should move on."

At that point Arvael interjected, "There is something not quite right here. My sight is still obscured, normally the taint of Chaos recedes following the excision of physical sources but this time it persists."

Everybody exchanged significant glances at the psyker's pronouncement, partly out of wariness of the Warp and partly because the Librarians were hardly well favoured. Yet Toran refused to let old hang-ups interfere with his duties and said, "It will take two days to retrieve all our material and officially hand-over control to the local PDF. I will keep our scout-novices in theatre until then but we cannot remain any longer. We must…"

Suddenly Toran's vox crackled and he heard a voice calling to him. He was surprised to be interrupted but even more surprised when he heard that the perimeter guards were being challenged by mortals. He listened for a moment and then called to have them escorted to him. He looked up and said, "Lord-Provost Orvius and First-Sheriff Karsa are here, demanding an audience."

Persion looked perplexed and said, "Those two? What's wrong now?"

Novak jested. "I'd wager he's lost a memno-quill in the fighting and wants us to go look for it."

Loudly Furion sighed, "Why did we ever make you Company Champion? I genuinely miss the days when I could clip you round the ear. Show some respect and at least try to look dignified."

A moment later the barrack's door opened and an Initiate ushered in the pair of mortals, who looked decidedly irate. Orvius marched right up to Toran and barked, "How dare you?! You lying wretch!"

Toran was offended by that and snarled, "You had better explain that remark!"

Yet Orvius cried, "I should have known your promises were worth nothing!"

Orath lumbered around with a ponderous step and growled, "Watch your tone little man, the Adeptus Astartes are not renowned for our forbearance."

Karsa snorted and said, "What does it matter? After all your fine words you move against us!"

Toran raised his hands and said, "I honestly don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't give me that," Orvius growled, "Even now Astartes squads are moving through Oriella: rounding civilians up, detaining innocents and dragging them away. Your troops are sacking the libraries, toppling the data-archives and looting precious repositories!

Toran was baffled by the accusation and said, "I don't know what you mean, we are not… Wait… The Ashen Knights, you mean the Ashen Knights are moving against you?"

"Damnation!" Jediah spat, "We were so busy looking for Traitors we didn't keep an eye upon our allies."

"Wretched Primaris abortions," Memnos growled, "I knew we shouldn't have trusted them!"

Toran felt a surge of confusion but he slammed down walls of self-control and barked, "Persion, I need a vox-link to the Ashen Knights right now!"

As Persion went to work Toran stepped back and said, "Lord-Provost, I assure you the Storm Heralds are not responsible but we will get to the bottom of this."

"I'll believe that when I see it," Orvius sneered.

Suddenly the Hololith stuttered and changed, reforming into the visage of a grim-faced Chaplain. It was Ulysses and he did not look happy to be contacted. The Ashen Knight glowered at them and rumbled, "What do you want?"

Toran drew himself up and said, "Chaplain, you will explain your actions. What are your squads doing in the city?"

Ulysses sneered, "We are clearing up your mess, sorting out this diffident rabble and setting right the wrongs you have allowed to fester."

Furion stepped up and growled, "You are assaulting Imperial citizens!"

Ulysses spat back, "We are saving this world, saving it from weakness and decadence. We are cutting out the rot and setting things right. We will show this world the correct way to live and the people will be better for it."

Furion snarled, "And how many innocents will die in the process?"

"That is up to them," Ulysses replied stonily, "Any who repent their ways will be given allowed to undertake penance. It usually only takes a few examples to get things in motion. Worst case scenario we expect to lose no more than one-tenth of the population."

"You can't do this," Toran growled in anger, "We won't let you."

Ulysses looked down his nose at them and said, "Do not try to interfere, the God-Emperor's will cannot be stayed," and with that he cut off the link.

Toran was aghast at what he had heard and Persion cried, "Damnation, what madness is this?!"

"We have to stop them," Memnos declared.

Suddenly Orath spoke up to say, "Why?"

Orvius gasped in horror, "What do you say?"

Frankly Orath explained, "What concern is it of ours? We are warriors not peacekeepers, if the Ashen Knights want to chastise this planet, why should we interfere?"

The mortals gasped but Furion stepped right up to Orath's face and growled, "We are the Space Marines, the champions and defenders of humanity. The Emperor made us to protect Mankind from the monsters in the dark, not to set ourselves above the common man. We have seen first hand what occurs when Astartes think to appoint themselves as rulers; we become the monsters we were meant to fight."

"Furion's right," Novak declared, "This is the damned civil war all over again!"

Yet Orath snorted, "Nobody seemed so concerned for mortal lives when we culled the captives."

Suddenly Arvael interjected, "We faced the risk of Chaos taint spreading, there could be no doubt that it was necessary, but this is different."

Sternly Toran agreed, "Storm Heralds do not persecute the innocent, we protect the weak and the helpless, we do not set ourselves up as their judges. We shall stand against this travesty and fulfil our oaths to protect this world."

Orvius glanced up and said, "You mean it?"

Toran assured him, "I gave you my word that we would protect your people and your culture and so we shall. I am recalling all squads and sending them into the city."

Karsa looked unsure and asked, "You are taking a big risk, are you really willing to fire upon the Ashen Knights?"

Toran swallowed but answered, "If necessary, but I will seek to avoid that if possible. I will order my squads to stand between these Primaris and your people, but I need you to start evacuating the people to the other cities."

"Evacuation," Karsa replied, "Well, we were already preparing for that when the Traitors came, I can certainly get it started."

"Make haste," Toran commanded, "We may not be able to buy you much time."

But Orvius cried, "Wait, what of our libraries, what of our precious records?"

Furion declared, "Lord-Provost your dedication to tradition does you credit but your first responsibility must be unto your people. The lives of the Emperor's servants take priority over books, they look to you to lead them to safety."

Orvius looked sullen but reluctantly acquiesced, then Toran declared, "Summon the squads and make ready to deploy, we shall shield the people with our bodies as they evacuate. I am ordering everybody to not fire first, but to be prepared should fighting erupt. If these Ashen Knights wish to test the Storm Heralds then they shall reap the whirlwind."


	17. Chapter 17

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 17**

The Repulsor rumbled around them, humming as its anti-grav's thrummed and its turbines throbbed. Inside Chaplain Ulysses was holding onto a support strut, swaying slightly as the machine bobbed and rocked over the ground. He was a terrifying sight in his bone encrusted armour and skull-helm and his hearts were filled with discontent. With him were a squad of Intercessors and Practici Elikos, all armed and ready for battle. They were moving swiftly through the city, headed for trouble but of what variety remained to be seen.

As they swayed from side to side Elikos looked over and asked, "So what are we expecting?"

Ulysses answered, "Those damnable Storm Heralds, they seek to interfere with our righteous work. They are obstructing our squads from rounding up the civilians."

Elikos sounded shocked as he said, "Why would they do such a thing? Is it Heresy?"

"No, not heresy, merely weakness," Ulysses snarled, "They allowed this world to slide into apathy and now they promulgate its lack of spirit with acts of wilful obstruction."

Elikos shook his head and remarked, "I struggle to understand such attitudes, their behaviour makes no sense."

"It is typical of the old Astartes," Ulysses growled, "Obsessed with bizarre doctrines and decrepit dogma. This is why the Primaris are superior, we get the job done."

"So what are we to do?" Elikos asked.

Ulysses replied, "Lord-Marshall Achilles wants us to get them out of the way."

Elikos paused for a moment then ventured, "We intend to shed blood?"

"Only if necessary but I doubt it will come to that," Ulysses responded, "I have no particular wish to spill loyalist blood, thin as it is. I will make them yield and they shall learn not to oppose the will of the Ashen Knights."

Suddenly the Repulsor ground to a halt and the doors whirred downwards. Ulysses was the first out and he felt the buffeting of the anti-gravs as he passed through the narrow gap in their fields designed to allow egress. He found himself in a wide transit yard outside a rail station, which was filled with PDF guards. Long lines of civilians were huddling outside, clutching meagre belongings and holding onto whining brats. They were all waiting to be ushered onto a waiting train and they cowered at the sight of the Ashen Knights arriving.

Across the yard from them was another squad of Intercessors, bolt-rifles held tightly but not quite pointed at the civilians. They were here to round up the huddled masses and take them away to the internment camps that the Ashen Knights were setting up in the distant eastern city. Yet standing directly between the two was a line of blue-clad Astartes, the Storm Heralds.

One glance was enough to tell Ulysses that the Storm Heralds were standing in the way of his Ashen Knights, blocking their advance. There were a score of them, mostly out-dated Tactical Marines and that Captain Toran with his ponderous red cape. The two sides looked like they had been standing off for a while, each determined to hold their ground until the other side blinked. Ulysses doubted that they would, should nothing be done here then fighting seemed inevitable, which would be a waste.

Ulysses squandered not a moment but strode up to his waiting Brothers and called out, "Who dares oppose the God-Emperor's will?"

From the line of blue-clad warriors Captain Toran called, "Come no closer, these people are under our protection!"

Ulysses snorted in disgust and declared, "You shelter pathetic wretches, who have failed to live up to the standards of the God-Emperor's creed. If they are incapable of keeping the faith then we shall bring it unto them."

Toran replied, "If you try to take these innocents then we shall stop you."

From Ulysses' side Elikos hissed, "This is going to end in a bloodbath." The Chaplain looked over at the opposing force and for a moment he agreed, the only way to fulfil his mission seemed to be to blast these Storm Heralds out of the way. Then he remembered Achilles' admonition of his blunt nature and chided himself, he would have to be more cunning than that.

Ulysses reached up and took off his helm calling, "This shouting is getting us nowhere, can we not talk like faithful servants of Terra?"

Toran paused, seemingly surprised by the act and then he too removed his helm, revealing a red augmetic eye and called, "As you will."

Elikos whispered, "What are you doing?"

"Trust me," Ulysses replied, "I am not totally without guile."

Then the pair of them strode confidently to the middle ground. Toran came out too; flanked by his Company Champion who had a burnt face and a Chaplain of his own, one so tall he could have been mistaken for a Primaris were it not for his archaic Mark III gear. Ulysses studied them and saw the arrogant pride radiating off them, the self-righteousness and ego. Ulysses knew he was in the right but how to make them see that, how to make them yield? Despite his bluster he was not sure this wouldn't end in bloodshed.

The two groups met half-way and Ulysses opened proceedings by saying, "Tell me Storm Herald, why do you oppose our noble work?"

The Chaplain answered for them, "This world lies within our protectorates and it is our duty to safeguard the Emperor's people. He never intended for us to rule over them."

Ulysses sighed, "A short-sighted approach, this world has slid into diffidence and sloth. We have no wish to rule anybody, but this world must be renewed with the power of faith if it is to endure."

"Furion's right," Toran countered, "The Emperor made us to fight, not to lord over His people. We will not allow you to persecute innocents."

"Innocents?" Ulysses scoffed, "These people are no innocents, they are guilty of valuing knowledge over the service of the God-Emperor."

Toran looked irate as he spat, "You speak of them as if they had given themselves over to Chaos, but they have not. There is no hint of corruption upon them!"

"They did not fight hard enough for the God-Emperor," Ulysses contradicted him, "That is more than enough to merit reprimand."

Suddenly the burnt Champion interjected, "And who appointed you upstart newcomers judge, jury and executioner over our protectorates? You sound like the Inquisition not noble warriors; I should beat you with the flat of my sword for your temerity."

Toran held up a hand and said, "Not now Novak, don't provoke him."

Ulysses felt Elikos bristling at the Champion's words but in his mind he spied a weakness he could exploit, a vulnerability he could use. He spent a micro-second reviewing what he knew of the Old Astartes' practices and realised he had an alternative option after all. Ulysses drew in a breath and exclaimed, "Bold words for a whelp."

Novak snorted, "I've slaughtered more Heretics than you've had hot meals."

Ulysses looked down his nose at the shorter Champion and declared, "Do not test me boy, I have seen and done more than you will ever know."

The Champion stiffened and Ulysses knew the Storm Herald's ire was growing, that was good, he needed the Marine to be outraged. Unfortunately Captain Toran seemed to have a cooler head and said, "We have squads positioned throughout the city, blocking every transit hub and exit. We can keep you stalemated forever if we want to."

Ulysses found that to be an exaggeration and sneered, "Doubtful, we outnumber you three-to-one."

Yet Furion interjected, "Do you really want to start an inter-Chapter feud over this?"

Ulysses took on an imperious air and claimed, "Hardly an issue, you can't hope to stop us."

Novak snarled angrily, "If you want to prove that then we're more than happy to put it to the test."

However Toran cut him off saying, "The Emperor weeps when His servants fight, especially when the enemies of Mankind surround us on all sides. You have defeated Chaos, now leave this world be and we will hold no grudge."

Ulysses saw his opportunity and sneered, "We shall not. You stand in the way of the God-Emperor's will and harbour those who have failed Him. This world has been judged and found wanting; these people must be punished for their lack of faith. The Ashen Knights will suffer no doubt or hesitation to exist; all must serve Him or suffer the consequences!"

Novak's temper frothed over and he cried "You craven mongrels, picking on the helpless and the weak! You are all spineless cowards!"

Elikos gasped at the grievous offence, and so did Toran and Furion, to call a Space Marine a coward was an intolerable insult. Even among the Primaris such words could only result in violent retribution. All around weapons tightened on hands and blades were half-drawn from scabbards, the threat of violence surging around them as all prepared for the spilling of blood, all save one. Ulysses' face was stern but his hearts were elated, this fool had played right into his hands. Novak didn't know it but he had just handed victory to the Ashen Knights.

Before anybody could react Ulysses raised his voice and cried aloud, "My honour has been insulted and I demand redress!"

Toran looked flabbergasted as he gasped, "What do you say?"

Ulysses responded sternly, "My courage has been called into doubt and by extension the Ashen Knight's. By the codes and precepts of the Adeptus Astartes satisfaction can only be found in blood. I hereby claim the right to prove my honour in single combat!"

The Captain looked confused but Ulysses knew he had the Storm Heralds right where he wanted them. The old Astartes were obsessed with their tradition and rituals, the convoluted dogmas and codes of honour that tied them up in knots. Ulysses knew that not one of the old Astartes would refuse such a challenge, he had even heard of whole wars being put on hold so rival Chapters could stand around and watch a ritual duel.

Toran grimaced and then admitted, "You are within your rights. What do you propose?"

Ulysses smirked, "We shall meet in one hour at our base and your insolent Champion will face me in single combat."

Novak looked eager for it and growled, "Let me at him Captain, I can take him."

Ulysses almost laughed at that, the idea that an old Astartes could defeat a Primaris in combat was comical. He covered his mirth by sneering, "I shall make you eat those words."

Toran held up a hand to forestall the Champion's next remark and asked suspiciously, "And to the victor?"

"The Right of Conquest," Ulysses answered, "When I beat this brazen slime into the ground you will depart this world and leave its people to the Ashen Knights."

Toran looked hesitant for a second and then gathered himself up and replied, "And when we win the Ashen Knights will cease their activities and acknowledge that these are the Storm Heralds protectorates."

Ulysses didn't even bother thinking about it, the notion that he wouldn't win was so remote it was wasn't worth wasting time upon, so the Chaplain concurred, "It is agreed."

Toran glared at him and said, "Then we will meet in one hour, until then you shall keep your Squads away from the civilians."

Ulysses cocked his head and agreed, "Very well, one hour won't make much difference anyway. We will see you at our base."

Ulysses didn't bother to wait for a response but turned on his heel and strode off. As he marched back to his lines Elikos stepped up and asked, "Was that wise?"

Ulysses replied, "You were the one who wanted to avoid bloodshed, this way I claim the rights to this world and they leave. Typical old Astartes, they can't resist a ritual challenge."

Elikos glanced back to where the Storm Heralds were gathered around their Champion and the Practici remarked, "You better win, they look pretty confident about their chances."

Ulysses snorted, "Of course they do, they think he is mighty but he's never faced a Primaris Marine before."

Elikos didn't seem reassured and commented, "That's what we thought before but remember what happened when we arrived, they laid out one of ours in the dust."

Ulysses dismissed his concerns, "They merely caught us off guard, I will not be so lax. Rest assured I will grind this impudent peacock Novak into the dirt and the Storm Heralds shall at last learn their place."

With that the pair strode back to their lines, confident that soon the Ashen Knights would soon triumph once again.


	18. Chapter 18

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 18**

A bead of water hung at the end of the stalagmite, dangling teasingly upon the very tip. It was growing ever bigger, fed by condensation from the brick roof above. Slowly the bead grew fatter and heavier until it seemed impossible that it could remain there and then at last it fell, falling into the dank puddles below. Kasarox sighed as he watched another bead start to form, moisture running down the stone icicle with inevitable momentum. The Word Bearers were located in a dank and dirty confluence of sewers, one that had been abandoned for so long that the walls were encrusted with mineral growths. It was pitch black here and the smell of mould was all-pervasive, the dank rot that spawned from centuries of neglect.

He and his kin had been here for hours, waiting for prey to fall into their trap and they would remain here for as long as necessary to achieve their goals. This nexus point was located near to the surface, where patrolling loyalists still roamed, so caution was paramount. There was also the risk of psychic detection, they were far from the Dark Apostle's protective enchantments and thus ran the risk of the enemy's Librarians picking up their spoor. Unfortunately there was nothing Kasarox could do about that, save wait and try not to draw notice.

To maximise surprise he was currently hanging from the roof, his transhuman strength making it child's play to haul his weight up the walls. The only real obstacle had been that the crumbling brickwork might collapse under his weight but if there was one thing the Word Bearers had been renowned for even before their enlightenment it was their fanatical dedication and so he had persisted.

All around the Coryphaus his kin lurked, a squad of Chaos Marines all waiting as he was. He had hand-picked his Brethren for this mission, choosing them one by one, save for a single individual. Raruma was here too, his persistent shadow dogging his every step. The Possessed Marine was hanging on to the roof like a spider, scorning the grapples and crampons required by the others. Somehow he was blending into the dank brickwork, becoming just a darker patch of shadow.

Raruma was looking at him and Kasarox's ear tickled as he heard the words form, "A virgin's bleeding heart for your thoughts?"

Kasarox didn't use his vox, the risk of detection was too high but could feel the blessed tang of the Warp around him and muttered, "Silence."

"What's the matter?" Raruma asked.

Kasarox hissed, "You will give away our position."

Raruma snorted in amusement and replied, "If they are capable of hearing Warp whispers then no amount of skulking in the shadows will help us."

Kasarox shook his head and sighed, "Can't you take anything seriously?"

"I try not to, Raruma laughed, "Admit it, your life would be less interesting without me."

Kasarox rolled his eyes and muttered, "Certainly simpler, you do make things complicated."

Raruma's tone dropped for a moment and he whispered, "It's not easy you know… having two souls."

"Oh?" asked Kasarox intrigued for the Mocker had never talked about this before.

Raruma sounded distant as he said, "I have two voices in my head, my indoctrination and gene-seed telling me to believe in the primordial truth and obey my leaders. The other is my Neverborn, telling me nothing matters and all is lies."

"Is that why you turned against Abulaz?" Kasarox probed.

"Partially," Raruma confessed, "My Daemon let me see clearly, to penetrate his glamour's and spellcraft, to see him as he really is."

"He has glamour's?" Kasarox asked in shock.

"Oh yes," Raruma answered, "He's wrapped in spells and Daemonic pacts, anyone who meets him is awed by his dark majesty. As much as it pains me to admit for all Abulaz's military incompetence his influence in the heavens below is potent. I think that's how he held sway over you for so long, I've tried to get through to you so many times but his hold is strong."

Kasarox thought about it and realised that Abulaz had always been surrounded by an aura of dark energy, a sense of potency beyond his physical frame. He swallowed and asked, "Then is there a risk I could fall back under his sway?"

Raruma replied, "Not if you are strong. You must be the master your own will, you must seize control of your own mind and destiny."

Kasarox was surprised to hear that and said, "But the Book of Lorgar tells us to forfeit our will to the glory of Chaos. That those who serve without hesitation shall be raised up high."

"Abaulaz really does have you tied up in knots," Raruma exclaimed, "Chaos is served by slaughter and destruction. The Dark Gods feed upon widow's wails and the suffering of the masses, the screams of the dying are their meat and the tears of the innocent are their drink. If you desire power then you must draw their attention with acts of rapturous agony and the lamentation of your victims. You need to stop putting yourself down and instead push yourself to the limit, for their attention is fleeting and only the mightiest of all shall be rewarded. Abulaz knows this, which is why he sought to cripple you with self-doubt."

Kasarox absorbed that thoughtfully, he had never interpreted the texts that way and it was a revelation. He was about to inquire further but at that moment there was a faint sound from below. Kasarox's attention snapped into razor sharpness, with a blink click he shifted his helm's vision to Preysight mode and the dark world snapped into a wireframe rendition of reality.

In this stark world of black and white contrasts Kasarox saw a small knot of intruders emerging, creeping into the nexus of tunnels with a cautious tread. They were tall warriors, in some form of light plate armour, somewhere between scout carapaces and the thick protection of power armour. They moved with soft treads and in their hands were blot pistols and long knives. Their scalps were exposed but their faces were covered in half-masks, adorned with grinning skulls that attempted to look intimidating.

Kasarox wasn't impressed for he had marched across Daemon worlds and faced down nightmares from the dawn of Mankind. If these newcomers thought they were scary then they were very much mistaken. Yet Kasarox had to admit there was nothing wrong with their tactics, they spread out and swept the area with practised skill, quartering the space and covering all the angles. Kasarox held perfectly still, his armour on its lowest emission setting, waiting for the prey to move into the centre of the room so he could spring his trap.

The trap was perfect and yet somehow the enemy seemed to be alerted to it. A heartbeat before they were in position one of the stranger's heads snapped up and he drew in a breath to shout an alarm. Instantly Kasarox let go, his immense weight dropping from the roof in an instant. The squad fell with him, falling as one to take the prey simultaneously. Yet the newcomer's reaction speed was blinding, even as the Word Bearers fell one of the foes ripped a grenade free from his belt and threw it towards them. The moment Kasarox's boot touched the ground it detonated in a blaze of light and energy that blinded his preysight.

Kasarox heard a voice cry, "Forward Reivers!" and instinctively threw himself to the side, the sudden shift saved his life as he felt a blade carve a furrow in his breastplate, the point only just avoiding his gorget. Kasarox fell back with a snarl of anger and waved his power fist in front of him to clear space. He blinked furiously to restart his autosenses and after a moment his vision came back. What he saw was amazing, the Reivers were throwing themselves into the fray, knives flashing and pistols blazing with deadly power. Even as he watched a pair of Word Bearers went down with bolts blowing out their throats. Murderous killers, who had slain millions, were cut down in heartbeats by these strange warriors.

Kasarox couldn't believe his eyes, how could the new warriors react so swiftly, even to Transhumans their skill was dazzling and deadly. They came on in a flurry of blows and shots, tearing at Ceramite and disfiguring the ornate script work covering each of them. Yet the Word Bearers were not without skills of their own. Even as Kasarox watched long claws grew from Raruma's hands and wings of black smoke erupted from his back. His faceplate opened to reveal long needle fangs as he fell upon a Reiver, his claws flashed over and over, tearing and gouging as rich blood sprayed high. The pair of struggling warriors fell to the ground locked in a murderous embrace then they rolled across the ground, as they fought for dominance and none could tell who would win.

Kasarox yelled, "We need one alive!" but the fight was too close and deadly for that. Before his eyes a Reiver darted at a Word Bearer while ducking beneath an outstretched blade. The Chaos Marine swung about but too slowly as the Reiver came up behind him gripping a bolt pistol. A flat bang announced the weapon firing and then the Word Bearer's chest blew out, a trio of bolts detonating inside his back to blow out his internal organs. The Reiver's triumph was short-lived however for another one of the Brethren targeted him with a bronzed bolter and cut him down with a torrent of furious rounds.

Kasarox cast about in desperation and saw a pair of Reivers were fighting back to back, holding off a half-dozen Word Bearers. They were fast and skilled yet totally outnumbered and could not hold them all off. One Word Bearer threw himself over their guard, taking a knife in the guts for his trouble but breaking the solid defence. Instantly the rest piled in, knives rising and falling in an orgy of bloodletting. Kasarox grimaced but knew it was pointless to order them back, the Reivers were dead already.

Suddenly Kasarox found himself confronted by the last Reiver, who was coming right at him. He was an ugly brute, with thick scars over his scalp and fierce and deadly mien that was evident in the predatory way he pounced. Kasarox twisted aside from a wicked blow, barely avoiding a killing stroke. He swung his power fist in response but the Reiver dodged back, easily evading the wrecking ball weight of the fist. Then the blade came at Kasarox again and he was forced to fall back, skipping over the wet brickwork to create space.

The Reiver pursued step for step, his skull mask grinning as he snarled, "Prepare to die Traitorous filth! You shall fall by the hands of the Ashen Knights and for the glory of the God-Emperor"

"First lesson whelp: less talking more fighting!" Kasarox snarled as he reversed his retreat and hurled himself at his foe.

The warrior saw him coming and his knife raised to deflect a blow from the fist, but that was not Kasarox's intent. Instead of trying to punch his foe he threw his mass forward, slamming bodily into the Reiver. As expected the sheer mass overpowered his foe and made him stagger, the lighter plate unable to withstand the sheer heft of power armour.

In that moment of disorientation Kasarox swung his fist about and he struck dead-centre, right over the hearts. At the last instant he cut his fist's energy field but the sheer inertia of the blow still shattered ceramite and broke the reinforced ribs beneath. The Reiver collapsed, dazed to insensibility and Kasarox pounced, carefully breaking each limb with precise blows and finishing off with a punch to the head for good measure.

Silence fell over the scene as Raruma picked himself up, black blood smearing his Daemonic plates and cursed, "Gods below, they're tough bastards."

"I said we need some alive," Kasarox growled.

Raruma spat a gobbet of black blood upon the ground and said, "We won anyway, so what now?"

Kasarox exhaled loudly and answered, "Bind this one tightly and make ready to move. I want to be gone from here before their kin notice they are missing."

"Back to Abulaz?" Rauma inquired, "Back to grovelling?"

"For now," Kasarox stated, "I want to know what twisted scheme Abulaz is cooking up before we kill him."


	19. Chapter 19

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 19**

In the camp of the Ashen Knights a gathering formed, hundreds of Transhuman warriors coming together to witness history unfold. A ritual duel had been declared and upon such moments the fates of worlds turned. This planet's future was about to be decided and nobody in either army was willing to miss it.

In a wide clearing originally intended as a vehicle park Ulysses meditated upon the coming fight. His breathing was slow and controlled as he centred himself and carefully assessed the environment, taking in every detail to ensure no factor was outside of his control. The ground was rough and littered with stones, the Ashen Knights having no time for laying down ferrocrete. The surface gave good grip but a loose stone could slide underfoot and change victory to defeat in a heartbeat. The wind was still and the sky was grey, there would be no sudden dazzling lights in the eyes to blind someone.

Ulysses heard Elikos behind him and the Practici said, "Are you sure you can win?"

Ulysses sighed and stood up, brushing off the grey stone-dust as he shook out his neck and replied, "Of course, it was never in doubt."

Across from him the Storm Heralds had gathered, clustered round their Company Champion, the Captain and his cohorts doing their best to look confident. This Novak was clad with gaudy gold embellishments but his combat shield looked stout and his sword looked lethal. Yet Ulysses was not worried, this warrior was outmatched and his kind was obsolete his victory was certain. The golden helm turned to fix him with a threatening glare but Ulysses did not flinch, such petty mind-games would not distract him.

At that moment Lord-Marshall Achilles stepped into the ring of Transhumans and called, "Combatants, present yourselves!"

Ulysses and Novak both stepped forward, the Chaplain gripping his Crozius in one hand as he donned his skull-helm. This would be a live-weapons duel and both challengers knew that there was a long list of warriors who had died in ritual duels such as this. Ulysses looked at his foe and stated, "If you wish to yield now, I shall accept your surrender."

Novak's confident voice rang from his helm, "Surrender? I don't know how."

Ulysses brushed off the remark and stated, "Than I shall teach you."

Achilles overrode them both saying, "This duel shall determine the future of this world, to the victor goes Right of Conquest. No strikes barred, the duel shall continue until one combatant yields, is rendered incapable of fighting or dies. You shall begin on…"

Ulysses didn't wait for him to finish but threw himself forward, swinging his Crozius overhead. He had intended to catch the Champion off guard but Novak seemed to have anticipated that and was already moving. His combat shield caught the golden mace and threw it aside with a crackle of energies as his sword darted out in response. Ulysses twisted aside with the speed born of his Sinew Coils and dodged the blow, then countered with wide a wide sweep of his Crozius but Novak ducked and the blow whistled by harmlessly. The Storm Heralds cheered as Novak skipped back and called, "Too slow!"

Ulysses grimaced under his helm, could this fool take nothing seriously? He followed on, swinging his Crozius left and right. Yet Novak dodged and weaved, like a snake the Crozius never coming close as he blocked with his shield and flourished his sword in elegant sweeps. Swift strikes came back, the point of the sword seemingly everywhere as it scored Ulysses' bone encrusted armour. Ulysses felt irritation stir but he mastered it, he needed a cool head here. He analysed Novak's style and determined that he was fast and skilled but he wasted his strength with elaborate flourishes and overly complicated moves.

Ulysses blocked an elaborate feint and strike, then jabbed his Crozius forward, managing to smite the golden helm. A flare of power erupted and the helm was broken, fizzing and spluttering sparks. Novak backed up, hastily ripped it off to reveal his burnt face. He eyed Ulysses warily and said, "You missed your chance to end this."

Ulysses paused and then reached up to remove his own helm and declared, "I need no such underhanded advantage to defeat you. I want you to know that I beat you fair and square, I want no one to doubt our superiority."

Novak grinned at that and gripped his sword tightly then leapt into the fray with a wild swing. Ulysses sneered and moved to counter but suddenly the sword veered in mid-blow and darted past his guard to rip across his arm, parting ceramite effortlessly. Ulysses gritted his teeth in pain but Novak wasn't done yet for the sword twisted downwards and tore across his thigh.

Ulysses gasped in shock as another blow came at him and another, each one faster than the last. The sword was everywhere, ripping and tearing him apart one piece at a time. The speed of it was dazzling, the precision sublime, he had never seen such deadly skill on display before. There was no trace of the elaborate flourishes, now his attacks were alarmingly efficient and direct. The sword blurred as it struck, he could barely see it as it repeatedly slipped past his guard, spilling his blood with every stroke.

The surrounding Ashen Knights cried in denial as Ulysses fell back but Novak didn't give him an inch. Gone was the arrogance and bravado, now his concentration was total and his focus as exact as a laser. Ulysses was rocked to the core by the dazzling display, unable to keep up with the speed and ferocity of the assault. With a flash of horror he saw that Novak had been deliberately holding back, lulling him into a false sense of security. The Storm Herald was in truth far faster and more deadly then Ulysses had ever dreamt. Novak was a prodigy with a blade and Ulysses fathomed that he wasn't in the same league as this old Astartes.

Horror filled Ulysses as he realised that he didn't have what it took to win this fight.

Suddenly a lateral blow caught the haft of his Crozius and sent it spinning away, leaving him defenceless. Instinctively Ulysses threw himself to the side but he was too slow to prevent the blade ramming into his guts, plunging deeply into his belly. Aghast Ulysses clasped his hands to the wound and fell to his knees. He knelt with blood pouring over his hands as he struggled to understand how this had occurred. Novak pulled back his blade and stood triumphantly over the Chaplain, he was sweating from his exertions as he proclaimed, "It is over, yield and I…"

Yet suddenly Ulysses raised his head and a savage grin broke out over his lips. One second later he felt a heady rush surge through him, a tsunami of strength and vitality filling him from head to toe. It was his Belisarian Furnace activating, the tiny organ buried between his two hearts releasing a flood of aggression boosters and cocktails of performance-enhancing stimulants.

Ulysses had never actually used the organ outside of controlled test conditions and the rush of it burned through him and made his body quake. He felt like he was on fire, his muscles screaming in agony and his hearts thundering in his chest. His eyes burned and his ears filled with the roar of blood pumping, his throat closed tightly and his mind was filled with an unstoppable need to fight and kill.

Ulysses rose from the ground with a scream of feral anger, his eyes wide with insane fury and his fists forming into clubs. Novak didn't even have time to react before Ulysses slammed into him, smashing him backwards with all of his weight. The Champion tried to respond but Ulysses was within his sword's arc and pounded forwards, carrying the Storm Heralds backwards with his arms wrapped around his chest.

Ulysses saw Novak's eyes widen in shock but it made no impression upon him. The Furnace burned in his body, lighting his soul on fire and tearing his rational mind to shreds. There was no possibility of restraint, there was only the fire raging through him and his world turned red as the inferno demanded release. Ulysses' head slammed forwards and hammered into Novak's face, breaking his nose, he followed that up with a jackhammer blow to the guts that bent the Champion over, His other hand grabbed the back of the gorget and hauled Novak upwards and then a fist slammed into the chin, sending Novak reeling away.

The Champion staggered but Ulysses screamed like a feral beast and tackled Novak around the waist. The pair of them went over, hitting the ground hard with Novak on the bottom. Novak struggled to recover but Ulysses was upon him, driving the attack home with relentless fury. His fists slammed into the Champion over and over, breaking bones and spilling blood, battering the warrior into unconsciousness. Jackhammer blows smashed Novak down and at last he fell still and silent as he sank into helpless oblivion.

Ulysses didn't care though, the Furnace was blazing incandescently, filling him with an unquenchable desire to tear and rend his opponent to shreds. The fire burned in his limbs, forcing him to keep on pulverising the unconscious warrior even though he was helpless and could not fight back. A tiny part of Ulysses' mind screamed at him to stop, that he had already won, but it was swept aside in the tsunami of rage. The Furnace pumped chemical aggression boosters into his body, driving him onwards, forcing him to keep fighting no matter what. Ulysses couldn't even slow down for he had lost all control of himself and he no longer knew how to stop.

Ulysses snatched up a rock from the ground and he held it in both hands as he slammed it into Novak's exposed head. He hammered it down over and over, covering his arms in blood. A feral scream of rage ripped from his lips as he smote the helpless warrior, his vision turning blood-red and his body driven on by a power beyond his control. A tiny part of his mind knew he would keep going until Novak's head was a gory smear but he could not restrain himself, the fury owned him now and it would not stop until it had its due.

Suddenly Ulysses felt two pairs of arms grappling him, dragging him backwards and in his ears muffled words shouted loudly. They made no sense to him and he kicked and snarled as he was dragged away, desperately trying to break free and finish what he had started. His blood-shot eyes turned upwards and he saw he was being restrained by a pair of warriors in steel and black ceramite, the colours of the Ashen Knights.

The sight was like a bucket of cold-water over Ulysses' head, quenching his fury and breaking through the red haze of violence. He felt the rush of stimulants finally abate as the Furnace went dormant, leaving him shivering and cold in its absence. Strength fled from his body as the withdrawal set in, leaving him weaker and colder than he had ever felt before. His hands trembled with palsy and his breathing was a rasp in his throat as the world went grey and dull before his eyes.

Ulysses looked down at his hands and was horrified by the blood and gore upon them. He was shocked to realise he had acted more like some rabid Khorne Berserker than a paragon of the Ashen Knights. He had been completely out of control, behaving like some feral animal and the worst aspect of it was that some part of his soul had enjoyed it; he had relished the torrent of rage and violence. His spirit plunged as Ulysses grasped that his soul was not as pure as he had always thought, that there was a part of him that had always wanted to embrace a life of unfettered slaughter and unrestrained carnage and the revelation of his own bloodlust shocked him utterly.

The hands holding him back withdrew and Ulysses was left kneeling there, cold and alone, his hearts going numb with shock and dismay. As if from a great distance he saw white-clad bodies rushing to Novak's broken form and he heard a voice crying, "He's alive but barely; we have to get him to an Apothecarion fast!"

Then at last the voice of Achilles cut through Ulysses' fog of confusion and he called, "Take your Champion and go. By Right of Conquest this world belongs to the Ashen Knights: now get off our planet."


	20. Chapter 20

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 20**

The cavern resonated with chanting, a dark rasping tone that rolled with an unnatural depth and vibrancy. There were inhuman sounds mixed into that chant, syllables that couldn't exist and should snap the jaws of anyone who attempted to utter them. The sound bored into the soul of any who heard it, stirring feelings of dread and despair in the most primitive parts of the mind. To hear that noise was to feel like a rodent before a great predator and be reminded that mankind was a tiny speck in a much larger universe.

Kasarox heard the noise and despite himself felt admiration stir in his jaded hearts. He was currently standing in a circular cavern, as far below the city as it was possible to get. This cavern was large enough to fit the hundreds of cultist-priests who were standing in concentric rings around the centre. Each of them was cut with the sigils of the Ruinous Powers and they chanted ceaselessly in a never-ending torrent of impossible syllables. The cavern was carved with runes of power and the marks of the Dark Gods, each one intended to draw divine favour. Yet it was not new, this shrine had been here long before the Word Bearers had arrived, waiting patiently for the Dark Apostle to find it. This was a temple unto the powers of Chaos buried right under the noses of the hated Imperials and it made Kasarox grin to know that the reach of the Dark Gods had no limits.

Kasarox's eyes travelled over the chanting crowds, picking out various Word Bearers who were overseeing the ritual, as they waited for their lord and master to arrive. They too looked awed by the cavern, by the implications of its existence and the feeling of ethereal power it instilled. Kasarox wondered how many of them were genuinely eager for Abulaz's arrival and how many were waiting for him to plunge a knife into the Dark Apostle's back. Then he hastily dismissed the thought, Abulaz's had many powerful gifts and the ear of the Neverborn, even a traitorous thought might be picked up in such company and he knew he had to guard his mind.

Kasarox distracted himself by looking at the dead centre of the cavern, where the cultists surrounded an empty space, almost empty that is. Chained to the bare rock was the naked form of the Reiver they had captured, forced to kneel as his hands and feet strove to break the fetters binding him. Each link of those chains was inscribed with runes of binding, as was his flesh, bleeding marks carved into his skin making him seem covered in tattoos. He was ringed by complicated wards and potent abjurations, all designed for a purpose Kasarox did not yet understand.

He was distracted from his thoughts by the voice of Raruma who said, "I don't like this."

Kasarox glanced at his companion and asked, "You know what's going to happen here?"

Raruma swallowed and said, "My Neverborn does and it is scared, something potent is stirring in the Warp."

Kasarox frowned asking, "Can it be more specific?"

Raruma shook his head and replied, "It doesn't work like that, I host a lesser Daemon, not one of the high and mighty. I get impressions, whispers and instincts, my other soul shares emotions and awareness but not words. I can't have a conversation, for it doesn't understand the concept of rational discourse."

Kasarox paused as an odd thought occurred and he asked, "Does it have a name?"

Raruma snorted in amusement then said, "Names are power and I keep mine safe. I may like you but I don't trust you that much."

At that moment there was a sudden disturbance on the far side of the cavern and Kasarox's eyes were drawn away to see the Dark Apostle emerge. Abulaz strode in with his head held high and his Black Crozius in hand, behind him trailed Vulak bearing the Book of Lorgar. The Dark Apostle looked taller and mightier than ever, swollen with dark power and radiating majesty. Authority and glory surrounded him like a halo and Kasarox experienced a surge of unworthiness well up within him at the sight.

Kasarox felt the power wash over him but then a small part of his mind reminded him of Raruma's words and he forced the feeling down. The Dark Apostle wrapped himself in glamour's, Raruma had warned, and Kasarox was in danger of falling under their spell once more. He realised that he was not looking straight at Abluaz himself but off one the side and he forced himself to stare directly at his lord. His eyes watered and terrible itch clawed at his mind but his will was steel and he held on. The image of Abulaz wavered for a second, like a reflection in a pond and then it dissolved. The Dark Apostle was still there but now he looked like a mere Space Marine, lacking any aura of majesty. Without his glamour he seemed rather ordinary, not impressive or gifted in any way and Kasarox couldn't believe that this was the lord he had bowed and grovelled before for so many centuries.

Abulaz was striding towards them and Kasarox realised that all around him were prostrating themselves. He hurriedly fell to his knees and pressed his forehead to the ground, desperately praying that the Dark Apostle didn't notice anything amiss. It seemed to work for Abulaz strode over and commanded "Rise."

Kasarox stood up and declared, "Mighty Lord, all is in readiness."

From Abulaz's shadow Vulak stepped forth and sneered, "We will be the judge of that."

Kasarox was seized by a sudden impulse to rip out Vulak's black hearts but he suppressed it and said, "Do you wish to inspect the prisoner?"

Abulaz seemed distracted and said, "Yes, I shall see what you have brought."

With that Abulaz marched to the centre of the cavern, carefully avoiding the ritual markings and the chanting cultists. Kasarox followed, curiosity burning in his hearts and they stepped into the ring. The prisoner raised his head as they closed, blood-scabbed writ large upon his face and he snarled, "Traitor filth!"

Abulaz bent down and stared at the prisoner as he said, "So this is the corpse-god's new hope, a feeble attempt to match the majesty of Chaos. These modifications are dull and uninspired, I expected more."

"Let me out of these chains and I shall show you how effective they are!" snarled the prisoner.

"Come now," Abualx chuckled, "No need to be rude, I would learn more of you… tell me of your life. What suddenly silent? No matter the Neverborn whisper to me, they tell me your name… Brother Jorto."

This Jorto glared back and spat, "You will get nothing from me!"

"Oh but I shall," Abulaz laughed, "So much potential lies within you and you shall serve my purpose."

Jorto snarled, "I serve only the God-Emperor!"

Raruma spat angrily, "You serve a liar and a betrayer, he demanded our fealty but repaid our love with scorn and humiliation!"

Abulaz waved him back and said, "Understand this, I do not need your consent, merely your flesh. Your blood holds the key to my victory and the secrets within it shall be the Imperium's undoing."

Jorto barked, "The blood of Rogal Dorn holds nothing for you save death"

Abulaz grinned and then ran a finger down the Reiver's face; he lifted it then licked the dried blood off saying, "Dorn… I think not. You can't hide the truth from me."

Kasarox didn't understand what that meant but Jorto growled, "I'm going to kill you."

Abulaz blinked and then cried, "You… don't know, do you?! And if you don't know… does that mean that wretched narrow-minded Primarch running the Imperium doesn't know either? Oh, what delightful treachery has that Martian adept wrought?! This is a fine cosmic jest; the Corpse-god's martinet son clasps a viper to his bosom and doesn't even know it!"

Kasarox had no idea what he was talking about but then Abulaz straightened up and stepped out of the ritual circle. The other followed him, careful not to disturb the wards and Vulak held open the Book of Lorgar for the Dark Apostle to read from. Kasarox watched in fascination as Abulaz summoned a cultist and then dragged his Crozius over the marked flesh, letting rich blood flow. He drew in a breath and proclaimed, "Audi me homicidii de capitibus! Da ignem, da fortitudinem tuam nobis!"

Suddenly the cavern grew darker and more closed in, the air shivered with a sudden tension and the chanting of the cultists grew more frantic and desperate. Kasarox felt a bead of sweat roll down the back of his neck as the presence of the Warp grew more intrusive, pressing against the surface of reality and making it writhe. He felt his pulses accelerate without his volition and his breathing suddenly became heavy and laboured as his throat began to itch with a thirst for hot vital fluids. Then Abulaz again dragged his Crozius over the weeping cultist's face and cried, "Qui vocat Angelus rubrum, Vocat furor! Vocat ignis!"

The cultists were practically screaming now and Kasarox gasped as the shadows danced around Abulaz. The Dark Apostle was swelling with power, his frame bursting with potency. This was no glamour; this was the raw unfettered might of the warp. Kasarox gasped in horror as he witnessed the might at his lord's command and he realised that he had been wrong about the Dark Apostle. No matter what else Abulaz was a mighty master of the underverse, a being of supreme potency and depthless knowledge. Thoughts of usurping him seemed farcical and Kasarox could not understand how he had ever thought to eclipse such raw power. Abulaz was wreathed in power, the sheer mass of energy shimmering off him like a heat haze. He looked ecstatic as the power flowed through him, filling him with dark potency and his voice resonated in dimensions beyond the bounds of sanity. He lifted his Crozius high and then brought it down, shattering the cultist's head as he screamed, "Sanguis quia sanguis Dei! Calva quia calvaria thronus! Ave Khorne! Ave Khorne!"

Thunder rolled in the cavern and above the roof burst into flames as the cultists collapsed in a paroxysm of pain. Kasarox looked up in awestruck horror as the brilliance of the red flames seared into his sight, rolling and tossing like a sea amid a storm. The flames moved in ways that seemed almost living, then suddenly they surged downwards. They spun into a tornado of fire, a column of blazing energy that struck in the middle of the ritual circle. The flames engulfed the Reiver trapped there and he screamed as they blasted his flesh. The flames wrapped themselves around him and set his body alight. Skin and muscle fell off the bones, charring and scorching them; leaving a Transhuman skeleton of blackened bones where once a Space Marine had knelt. The bones did not collapse however; they remained kneeling, surrounded by a whirlwind of fire and held up by ethereal power.

Kasarox was stunned as he saw the skeleton's head tilt back and the jaw opened to allow the fires to rush within, pouring into the mortal frame like water down a drain. The skeleton shuddered as the power of the Warp filled it, replacing muscles and flesh with blazing red fires, creating a new body of unholy flame. A chilling laugh echoed around the cavern as reality was torn asunder and something came to be that had no business existing. The form lifted off the ground, seeking to fly free but it was held down by the chains binding it and it could not leave the ritual circle. The laugh changed to a screech of outrage as the form thrashed and flailed but it could not break the chains binding it down. The fires surged outwards but rebounded from invisible walls described by the ritual circle and the screech became one of affronted rage at being denied freedom.

Kasarox could only look on in amazement at the being before him as the skeletal jaw moved and a voice that had no trace of humanity spilled forth. The noise had nothing to do with human speech, it was guttural and grinding and yet somehow meaning formed in Kasarox's ears as he heard, "Who dares imprison the Cruor Angelus, Red Angel of the Sixth Host?! Who dares bind the Ragefire of Khorne!"


	21. Chapter 21

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 21**

In the western half of the Oriella panic reigned as people ran and hid wherever they could. They scuttled through the streets in fearful huddles and cowered in basements and lofts from the fearsome hunters on their scent. They clutched meagre belongings and herded wailing infants away from the daylight as they sought to avoid the relentless gaze of their pursuers. Unfortunately it made no difference for the Ashen Knights were methodical and relentless in their search, dragging people from their shelters and herding them into long columns that led over the mighty bridge to the internment camps located in the east.

Those who should have stood against this were helpless to intervene. The Storm Heralds had withdrawn to their base and the PDF dared not challenge the mighty Ashen Knights in any way. The evacuating trains and orbital shuttles were silent and dark, their activity halted by the threat of bolt rifles. No one else would be leaving this city, and the other collegium-cities would doubtless experience the same treatment in time. The soldiers stood in small groups and shivered at the passing of the Primaris Marines, secretly glad that the gaze of the Ashen Knights had passed them over without remark. A few of the wisest ones were not so confident, nervously wondering if they were merely being left for later.

On the eastern side of the river the people were forced into razor-wire enclosures. These had been thrown up in hours and they lacked even the most basic facilities, ten of thousands of civilians were herded into the stinking pens like cattle, huddling in fear of what was to come. Their future was bleak yet it was not to be forgotten. Around the pens marched mortal priests, followed by acolytes and vestals in ceremonial vestments. They were reading aloud from weighty tomes as they walked, preaching of the divinity of the God-Emperor. They spoke to the masses, explaining how they had erred and what must be done to earn forgiveness.

The common people were facing a bleak future, uncertain of what tomorrow would bring. They were cold, hungry and afraid so it was no surprise that they threw themselves upon the mercy of the Space Marines. They fell to their knees and pleaded for forgiveness, ardently proclaiming their devotion to the God-Emperor. Lifetimes of secular labour and philosophy were thrown aside out of desperation and the people said whatever they thought the Ashen Knights wanted to hear. For their part the Primaris were far from impressed. Words were meaningless to them, faith could only the expressed through deeds.

Between the endless clusters of pens another form of gathering was taking place. This was of material items, books, scrolls, data-crystals and memno-slates. Each had been gathered up from the libraries and brought here, deemed to be lacking in devotion to the God-Emperor they had been stacked in large piles where all could see them. Upon each pile an individual had been strapped to a stake, the leaders and teachers of this society. The Ashen Knights had singled these individuals out for their lack of piety, for committing the sin of adoring anything other than the God-Emperor and it had been determined that they must suffer.

Before the eyes of the desperate people the Ashen Knights set alight the piles of books, destroying thousands of years worth of carefully hoarded knowledge. Ancient irreplaceable lore went up in flames, the thick smoke blocking out the weak sun. As for the leaders tied to the stakes the lucky one suffocated to death, the rest were taken by the flames. The message could not have been clearer: repent or die.

Throughout the city this was repeated many times, the Ashen Knights overseeing tens of thousands of prisoners and yet there was one of their order who was not participating. In the heart of their base lay a small chapel, a modest structure meant for brief pre-battle blessings and sermons. It had been dropped from the Iconoclast, complete with its own altars and Holy relics. Within that structure knelt a single Primaris Marine, bereft of his armour and with his head bowed. In one hand was a whip with many threads, each barbed most cruelly and with it he was flagellating his own back, drawing blood with every lash. It was Ulysses and he was seeking absolution before the altar of the God-Emperor.

Ulysses had been here for hours, scourging his flesh in an attempt to cleanse the memory of the duel from his mind. He had prayed that the God-Emperor would cleanse him of his sins and purify his hearts but no answer had been forthcoming. No matter what he did the vision kept coming back to him and he knew his attempts to purge himself had been futile. Ulysses' penance was interrupted by the sound of footfalls behind him and he sighed as he recognised the familiar tread. Sure enough the measured pace filled the small chapel and the voice of Elikos came forth, "Here you are, I've been looking for you for hours."

Ulysses sighed and put down his whip; he made the sign of the Aquilla and then stood up saying, "Did it not occur to you that I did not want to be found?"

Elikos came into his field of vision, his helm absent to reveal his stern face as he replied, "Why not?"

Ulysses knew it was pointless trying to send away his old friend and answered bluntly, "The Brethren should not see me like this, they would be confused to witness me paying penance."

Elikos eyed his bleeding back and said, "I can see that, but what are you paying penance for?"

Ulysses lowered his head in shame but would not tell a lie as he stated, "For my acts in the duel."

Elikos sounded confused as he protested, "But you won!"

Ulysses closed his eyes and confessed, "I shouldn't have, by all rights I should have lost. That Storm Herald was better than I was, more skilled and more deadly. I thought my Primaris status would make for an easy victory but I badly underestimated him. He fought with total focus and commitment, he wanted to win more than I did. My zeal was lacking and his was not. He had me right where he wanted me, without my Furnace I would have lost."

Elikos frowned and mused, "So you're upset because you didn't beat him fairly? You think that you... cheated?"

Ulysses' eyes snapped open and he snapped, "Don't be obtuse, the Furnace is but a weapon and a warrior uses every weapon he has to achieve victory.

Elikos shook his head in bewilderment and exclaimed, "Now you've completely lost me, I don't understand why you're being so morose."

"Because I lost control," Ulysses spat, "I lost myself in the rush of rage and anger, I had no control over myself at all. The one who beat Novak was not me; it was some berserker wearing my skin! Something other took over my mind and I almost lost my soul in the process."

Elikos rubbed his chin and said, "The Furnace can drive a warrior to extremes, it was meant to boost strength and aggression. Yet it can't change who you are, its effects are temporary and infrequent. I've spoken to many survivors of its effects and they are all troubled by it, for some reason the Furnace burns hotter than usual in our bloodline, but they all come to terms with it in time. You are simply wrung out, you just need time to process."

Ulysses disagreed, "It's deeper than that, the Furnace showed me something about myself. When I lost control a part of me liked it, a darkness in my hearts wanted it to never end. For a moment I wanted to slaughter everything, to kill everyone in reach and never stop. I still feel the kernel of desire even now."

Elikos looked concerned as he said, "That is troubling, but not necessarily a bad thing in a warrior. We were made for war after all. Rage can be a power all unto itself."

Ulysses lowered his head and sighed, "No, rage can be a powerful tool in the right hands but if not tempered with restraint it can turn on the wielder. Is it not written: Rage without focus is no weapon at all."

Elikos paused and asked, "Where is that written?"

Ulysses started as he realised he had let slip classified information and hastily covered, "You shouldn't ask those questions. Suffice to say that losing control in such a manner is unforgivable, especially for a Chaplain."

Elikos tried to shake off the morose sentiment consoling, "You're being too hard on yourself. You had a dark moment, that's all. Its nothing, come and join the rest of the Brethren, we miss your fiery oratory."

Ulysses refused the offer saying, "I cannot, I must seek absolution. I see a yawning pit within my soul, it seeks to draw me in. If I do not purge this flaw I could well become worse than those we fight, a creature of slaughter and Chaos, hateful unto the eyes of the God-Emperor."

"Chaos?" Elikos said in disbelief, "Now you are being overly-dramatic. No Primaris Marine has ever fallen to Chaos, its impossible."

"That's what was once believed about the Primarchs," Ulysses spat, "They believed themselves without flaw and their fall was all the greater for it. You saw the devastation they unleashed with your own eyes. We both saw the ruin first-hand before Cawl placed us into stasis for ten millennia. Every Space Marine walks a tightrope, balancing violence with honour and we all know one slip will doom our souls. Primaris are no more immune to Chaos than any other, why else would we need Chaplains?"

Elikos nodded and said, "Balance yes; it is much the same with my craft. Just enough of a drug will save a life, too much will kill. Too little activity will cause cell-death but too much will create cancers. It all comes down to balance in the end."

Ulysses nodded, "We Ashen Knights are zealous at heart, aggressive and unforgiving by nature but we must balance that with humility, temperance and faith. I am ashamed to discover my soul lacks such modesty and I must atone."

Elikos sighed, "I understand, it was wrong of me to interfere. I shall withdraw and leave you to your prayers."

"Thank you," Ulysses said in gratitude, "In time I shall…"

But then his words were cut off by a scream outside. It was ragged and hoarse, not a cry of pain but of anger and ferocity and it was not alone. More screams arose, a few at first and then a multitude, all raging at once. Instantly Elikos and Ulysses were moving, dashing outside the chapel to see what had occurred. They were both been designed and condition to be ready for anything, yet what they found shocked them to the core.

Everywhere they looked mortal men and women were running to and fro, in a state of utter madness. They were screaming and clawing at their flesh, throwing themselves at the ground and each other like rabid dogs. In the razor-wire pens families fell upon each other, tearing and gouging with no hint of restraint. Friends and lovers tore at each with rabid savagery, trying to gouge out eyes and rip out throats in a mad scrum of raw, primal rage. Elsewhere aged holy men beat their peers with the tools of their calling while acolytes and vestals tore at each other in a state of frenzy. Blood was pouring from the eyes of all, as the crowds of people ripped themselves to shreds.

Only the Primaris Marines seemed immune but they were left standing around in a state of shock as their camp dissolved into utter madness. Elikos gasped aloud, "What is happening?"

"That is," said Ulysses pointing to the horizon where a pillar of flame was climbing into the sky, casting a baleful red glare over all.

"What is that?!" cried Elikos in shocked horror.

"Chaos," Ulysses growled in hateful recognition, "Bring me my armour, it seems this war is not nearly as done as we had thought."


	22. Chapter 22

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 22**

The Storm Herald's base was almost gone now, the last prefabricated buildings being lifted up into orbit one by one. The armouries were absent, the Chapel-barracks all folded away and the Machine-fanes were consecrated for transport. The personnel were also mostly absent, all save a few serfs left behind to tidy away the remaining facilities. They should have been moving frantically, desperate to keep up with the demands of their Transhuman masters but today they were laggard and dispirited.

The cause of this was easy to see, the Storm Heralds themselves were the source. As tradition demanded they would be the last to leave this world but strangely it was they who were dawdling in their duties. This was most unlike them; they were usually zealous and fiery in their endeavours, even the least activity given their full dedication. Yet today their zeal was lacking for the burden of defeat lay heavily upon them. Space Marines were made to triumph, they were conditioned to overcome any adversary and as such defeat was not a state of being they were accustomed to. Such an eventuality was accounted for in the Chapter's doctrines, arduous rituals and lengthy rites of lamentation awaited the Initiates in orbit but until they could return to their ship's chapels they were left in a strange limbo.

Toran could see it as he walked through the camp, he could see the lethargy and stupor hanging over his Brothers. Perhaps to mortal eyes there would be little difference but to him it was obvious. The Space Marines were marching with their heads held low, their pauldrons were slumped and their talk was subdued. There was no cheer amongst them as they marched on patrol or oversaw the serfs in their labours. They were moving like automatons, lacking their customary fervour and drive, almost indistinguishable from Mechanicus constructs.

Toran shared their morose spirit; defeat was a heavy burden to bear. He had watched on as Novak had duelled the Ashen Knight's Chaplain and shared the initial elation, only to be shocked by the outcome. The battering Novak had suffered had been extreme and all who had witnessed it had been stunned. They had hastened back to their base, carrying the bloodied Champion with them, unconscious but still breathing.

Toran could not help but wonder if he should have intervened, or even called off the whole duel but then how could he have predicted this? He had been sure of Novak's skill and right up till the end it had looked like he would win. Toran didn't know what else he could have done and it was too late to change the outcome now. Space Marines were forged to move ever forward, they could not spend their lives looking back in introspection. They could only embrace reality and wade on against whatever the universe threw at them.

Toran walked on with these thoughts in his mind, while around him Third Company completed its preparations for departure. Ahead of him he saw a pair of Initiates talking and he realised it was Sergeants Lorath and Orath. The pair of them seemed to be in close discussion, the larger Terminator hunched over by the bulk of his plate. Toran had worn Tactical Dreadnought armour once, so he knew well how cumbersome Indomitus pattern plate was, Orath however seemed to be coping far better than he ever had.

Toran marched up to the pair of them and called, "Shouldn't you two be working?"

They turned to see the Captain approach and Lorath replied, "We are debating who should be last off this planet."

Toran raised an eyebrow and said, "Does it matter?"

Orath growled, "Of course it matters, we don't want those wretched Ashen Knights to think that we ran away without our pride."

Toran shook his head and said, "We shouldn't dwell, they won in accordance with all traditions and protocols. The best thing we can do is leave them to it and find some other war to engage in. Our pride can be assuaged best by claiming some fresh victories."

Lorath turned to look over the western side of the city, where their base was located and said, "We should do something about those arrogant curs."

Yet Toran rebuked him, "They followed the dictates of tradition and so shall we. Sucaris is their world now; we shall not ignore their hard-won rights."

Lorath settled down but Orath growled, "Blasted Primaris, I knew they'd be trouble. We should watch our backs from now on, I don't trust them one jot."

Toran agreed, "That I can't argue with. I shall be keeping our guard up, even once we are back on the Thunderchild, I suspect we haven't heard the last of them."

Orath nodded and Toran strode on, headed towards a building that had yet to be removed. It was an odd sight, sitting all alone in a dismantled base but for a very specific reason it couldn't be moved. This was a field-Apothecarion, a facility for treating wounded Brothers and it was currently still in use. Toran hastened his pace and entered the facility, to find his advisors waiting, in a clinical recovery suite.

There were ten med-slabs inside the Apothecarion, nine of them empty and only one filled with the slumbering form of Novak. He was a sad sight to see, his implant ports connected to various devices via dripping tubes and his burnt face barely visible under a swathe of bandages. Toran knew Space Marines were tough and healed fast, but it was still a shocking sight.

Toran pulled up short and addressed the circle of Storm Heralds, "How is he?"

Memnos was tending to the various machines, his Chains of Shame clinking against glass bottles hanging from drip-stands as he answered, "Its touch and go, the only thing that kept him alive was the sheer thickness of his idiot skull. By all rights he should be dead."

Persion interjected then, "He'll make it, he's strong."

Toran noted the bravado in his tone and said, "Persion, it might take time…"

But Persion shook it off snarling, "He'll make it, he has to. I've lost too many Brothers recently, I can't lose another. Not after Bylan, not after Daite and Ophelian and Halis…"

He trailed off then and Toran shared a significant glance with Furion. The Traitor Halis was someone they categorically did not talk about, his name was a curse best left forgotten. Persion must really be upset to slip up so. Thankfully Furion stepped up, his black armour gleaming as he said, "To fight and die for the Emperor is the lot of every Space Marine, but it will not be this day. Novak will endure this and rise again, rest assured of that."

Suddenly Jediah spat, "He'd better be quick about it because I itch to beat some sense into that stupid head of his. That loose tongue of his has been trouble for years; it was going to cause a disaster sooner or later."

Furion nodded and mused, "Perhaps he will learn something then, this should never have happened."

"Too right," Jediah growled, "It was dumb going blade to blade with a Primaris. I told him he'd be better off bringing a plasma gun."

Toran sighed, only Jediah would think to take a plasma gun into a swordfight. The Captain drew in a breath and said, "Do we understand what happened? The fight was over and then… I don't know what occurred."

Arvael nodded slowly and said, "I have a theory, I have been looking over the reports from Terra. It seems the Primaris have several new organs, in addition to our own. One of these is some form of adrenal booster; in times of duress it can trigger massive bursts of chemical stimulants."

Memnos spat upon the ground, making the floor sizzle with acid, then proclaimed "Filthy abominations. They have no idea what long-term effects this might have upon their gene-seed, it is an utter disgrace."

"It's cheating is what it is," Persion growled, "They didn't fight fair!"

Yet Furion rebuked him, "Fair? This is war Brother, there is no such thing as a fair fight. Tradition maintains that the Ashen Knights won, we have no grounds to protest now."

Toran nodded and said, "We will leave this world behind and request new orders from Chapter Master Phalros. The sooner the… "

Suddenly a weak voice arose "Will everybody stop shouting… my head is pounding."

Everybody gasped and turned to look at the med-slab where Novak was stirring. They hurriedly gathered around, jostling for space and Persion cried, "You dunderheaded fool, I could hug you!"

"Please don't," Novak wheezed, waving them back with a hand then asked, "Where's my sword?"

Toran was reassured to find that the Astartes' first thought was for his weapon and saw Furion handing it over saying, "Here it is, we kept it safe."

Novak lifted his blade, the hexagrammatic runes (the work of a long-dead inquisitor) shining in the light. Novak turned the sword this way and that, looking for nicks and then said, "No damage here, but what hit me?"

Jediah growled in response, "Ulysses did."

"Feels like a mountain dropped on me," Novak commented, "Give me five minutes and I'll get up, I want to track him down and teach him a lesson."

Memnos sternly said, "You are going nowhere, Astartes or not you are in no state to…"

Suddenly there was a fearful scream from outside the Apothecarion making Toran's head snap around. The cry was taken up by another voice and another, each one filled with fear and dread. Yet what truly set Toran's hearts racing was the sight of Arvael, collapsing to his knees with a grimace of pain on his face. Toran leapt to his aid and cried, "What is it?!"

The Librarian gritted his teeth and spat, "The Warp tears and reality splits asunder. Chaos rises on a tide of blood!"

Toran was stunned but then from the doorway Furion called, "Captain, you better come and see this!"

Toran helped Arvael to his feet and then made his way to the door but what he saw shocked him utterly. On the horizon was a baleful tower of red flames, climbing into the sky. One glance told Toran this was no natural conflagration, the flame writhed and swelled seemingly at random, swaying like a living thing. There something else about that blaze, a sense of presence and intelligence that made Toran's hackles rise. Merely looking upon it made his trigger finger itch and the hairs on his neck stood up in alarm. The sight of it sent the serfs scurrying into a panic; they ran and hid from the sight. Crying and cowering in terror at something beyond their comprehension but instinctively knowing it was anathema to all that good and true.

"What the Frak is that?" gasped Persion in horror.

"Chaos," Arvael spat from the doorway where he was leaning for support, "The Blood God's power made manifest."

"It's coming from the eastern side of the river," Jediah pointed out.

"It won't stay there," Arvael announced, "It will spread and consume all, it won't be satisfied until it takes this whole world for its own."

Toran's mind was awhirl with questions of how and why this had happened but his hypno-indoctrination slammed into place as his conditioned mind began working the problem. A threat to the Imperium itself had presented itself, damn tradition and protocol, Third Company must respond to this. He opened his vox and cried, "To arms Storm Heralds, enemies approach and we must be ready. Gather arms and unpack the vehicles, all sergeants are to present themselves for an immediate briefing. Move it Brothers, move like the hounds of hell are upon you!"

The base erupted into activity and Toran knew Third Company would be ready in minutes. Yet from behind he heard a clatter and Novak's voice crying, "Wait for me, I need my armour!"

Memnos ran to his side and cried, "Get back in bed; you're in no state to be moving!"

Novak shook him off and began ripping out drip lines as he said, "I can stand and I if can stand then I can fight!"

Toran agreed, "Look at what out there, he's no safer in bed than he is on the front line. We need every sword we have and I can't afford to be without my Champion now. Persion, Jediah get him into his plate. Furion, Arvael you're coming with me, the enemy is upon us and we need a plan!"


	23. Chapter 23

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 23**

"Release me!" the voice roared. It was an unearthly resonance, one that had no business existing in reality. It was raw hatred made manifest, a clenching of the guts and the violence of a slit throat all rolled into one. The sheer horror of it made cultists fall down shrieking in terror, their ears bleeding and hearts thundering in their chests. The voice filled the cavern with its malevolent tones, causing the air itself to shake and reality to quiver in outrage.

Kasarox felt every inflexion of the voice, every surge and dip in its cadence. It made his reinforced bones shake and his fists clench, lighting a fire in his guts. Listening to the voice made him want to fight, it didn't matter what he battled so long as the blood flowed. The voice called to him, luring him into an eternity of slaughter and carnage from which there would be no return. It promised strength and immortality to those who spilled blood, any who gave themselves over to the ferocity.

A part of Kasarox's soul yearned to embrace the promises but the rest of his soul held true. He bit down on the impulse with sheer willpower, forcing it into abeyance and calming his mind. The teachings of Lorgar told that the Gods granted great power but that it was up to men to wield them correctly. This is what the hateful Imperium failed to grasp, to serve Chaos was not to give up one's will, it was to marry it to something greater. The perfect state of being was a symbiosis of man and god, a union of the two to create something greater. So Kasarox held his mind still and forced himself to think clearly.

Before him lay the ritual circle and it was filled with flames. An impossible conflagration burned in that circle, swirling and blazing even though there was no fuel to feed it. The flames billowed outwards with malevolent force, trying to expand beyond their confines but they were denied. Where the markings of the circle lay, banded with runes and wards, a barrier had formed. It was invisible to mortal eyes but to the fires it was impenetrable, they beat upon those walls with terrifying ferocity but nothing they did could break through.

Kasarox was astounded by the sight and by the image of Dark Apostle Abulaz, who was standing before the circle. He had his arms outstretched to take in his triumph and his face was rapt with glee at what he had wrought. In his shadow his followers cowered, Kasarox, Raruma and Vulak all standing dumbfounded by what they were seeing. Abulaz looked upon the surging fires and cried, "Heed me Red Angel!"

In return the flames exploded outwards, only to be rebuffed by the walls. The voice sounded incandescent in its outrage and the feral wrath of it made cultists retch and weep. Abulaz lowered his arms slightly and said, "I know it is hard but try hold onto a thought. This will be a lot swifter if you can actually talk. You are capable of it; I have read of you, I know you are capable of speech."

The flames billowed for a moment and Kasarox wasn't sure that the message had been heeded but then they shrank back from the invisible walls. They condescended as they shrank and assumed a familiar form. Legs and arms and a torso emerged as the fire took on the shape of a man. At the centre of the inferno were the blackened bones of the prisoner, floating off the ground but still held down by chains. The flames congealed around the bones, creating the impression of a burning man and then the skeletal jaw moved and the voice spat, "What do you want?"

"That's better," Abulaz remarked, "Now to business Red Angel, I desire your fury."

The Red Angel paused and then asked, "What do you sacrifice in exchange for this boon?"

Abulaz spread his arms wide and said, "I offer you this world, millions of innocent souls."

"Pathetic, you know nothing," the Red Angel sneered, "To mean something sacrifices must be personal, they must cost you dearly."

"I disagree," Abulaz retorted, "You lent your power to our lords of old, you served willingly at the feet of the Warmaster."

"He served me!" the Red Angel roared in anger.

Yet Abulaz seemed not to be impressed as he said, "You seem to misunderstand the situation, I am not here to bargain but to take what I want. You are my prisoner and I am your gaoler, you can't resist me!"

Kasarox was stunned to hear that and he gasped, "My lord, Daemonic pacts are sacrosanct, is it wise to forsake the rites of the Legion?"

Abulaz snorted in amusement and said, "I care nothing for the scribblings of Erebus. I am my own master and I will decide what to do with my slaves."

The Red Angel roared in fury and bellowed, "I am not some lackey one summons to do their bidding. I am the frenzy and the bitterness and the savagery in the hearts of men! I am the act of murder between lovers and the mad rush of kinstrife. I am the tears of mothers suffocating their own babes and I am the madness of brothers warring. So long as men turn on their own then I will exist, I am beyond you, little mortal!"

Abulaz grinned as he remarked, "And yet I captured you."

Behind them Raruma gasped and said, "My lord, do not be rash. This is a potentate of the Sixth Host; such powers are not to be trifled with lightly."

Abulaz didn't look back as he answered, "I know what I am doing."

Kasarox wasn't so sure and stated, "Dark Apostle, the Book of Lorgar insists that the Neverborn are to be treated with respect. This is a perilous course you embark upon."

Abulaz waved him off saying, "We need this one's power, we need his rage but not as some uncontrollable calamity. No we need precision and control. Is it not written in the Book of Lorgar: rage without focus is no weapon at all."

Kasarox sank back but Vulak dared to say in worried tones, "What are we to do then?"

Abulaz returned his attention to the Daemon and held up his hand palm facing forward. The Red Angel thrashed in its chains and tried to break free but was helpless to resist as the Dark Apostle pressed his palm up to the barrier and closed his eyes. Long seconds passed and Kasarox did not know what his master intended but he was amazed by the power on display. He had only just begun to ponder upon his Lord's weaknesses and to contemplate overthrowing him but now he wasn't so sure that was a good idea. Abulaz's power was greater than he had ever imagined and it seemed as if his might was beyond reproach.

As if sensing his thoughts his ear tickled and he heard Raruma's voice manifesting, "He is making a mistake."

Kasarox checked to make sure no one was listening and then sub-vocalised, "He seems confident this will work."

Raruma disagreed, "The Red Angel is legendary, it stood beside the Warmaster during the Heresy. It is a power beyond compare; Abulaz can't hope to contain it."

Kasarox commented, "And yet he seems to be doing it."

Raruma shook his head minutely and said, "This is not how one deals with the emissaries of the Dark Gods. The Red Angel will not forgive this; we are making a most terrible enemy."

Kasarox stated frankly, "It is already done, what can we do save follow Abulaz's lead?"

Suddenly Abulaz raised his head and stepped back, cupping something in his hand. Kasarox craned his head and spied a tiny little flame dancing in his palm, the smallest spark of light. It was a small and fragile thing and yet it endured without sustenance, burning brightly in the Dark Apostle's palm. Kasarox was bemused and said, "That's it?"

Even Vulak sounded uncertain and said, "What is it?"

Abulaz smiled at the little flame in his hand and said, "The Ragefire."

Behind him the Red Angel thrashed as it bellowed, "I was born the passions of betrayal! I watched the sons of the blood start down the path of madness; I watched demi-gods and Greater Daemons make war upon each other. I stood at the right hand of the Warmaster and set him down the darkest of paths. No mortal can wield my power!"

But Abulaz ignored it and said, "Here is the key to our victory."

Raruma stared at the flame and commented, "It's a bit small."

Abulaz smiled wickedly and replied, "Watch."

With that the Dark Apostle reached out and touched a cultist. The flame leapt from his hand and settled upon the mortal and in a heartbeat it grew. The fires ran all over the man, racing down his limbs with shocking speed, covering him in flames. Yet he did not die, his hair did not burn, his skin did not char or his clothes catch alight. Instead something far more profound and disturbing occurred. The man's face filled with a bestial, feral rage and a scream of anger ripped from his lips. Bloody tears streamed from his eyes and he gave rise to a roar of mad fury, without a trace of sanity or restraint.

The other cultists shrank back in fear but the mortal launched himself at the nearest, tackling a robed woman with too many eyes to the ground. They rolled on the ground and instantly the flames grew, spreading over the next person and the next, anybody they touched underwent the same transformation and spreading the taint onwards. In seconds the cavern descended into a mad braying scrum of mortals, all fighting tooth and nail and all covered in licking flames that did not burn. All bonds and friendships were cast aside in the bedlam, the madness was in the air, it was everywhere.

Kasarox was buffeted by the heaving mortals but his Transhuman frame withstood the scrum as he yelled, "They have felt the touch of Khorne!"

Vulak looked lost and called, "Why aren't they burning?"

Abulaz proudly shouted, "The Ragefire does not burn the body, it burns the soul! The minds of these mortals are its fuel and the vector of its spread!"

Kasarox frowned and called, "Why are we unaffected?"

"Control and focus," Abulaz explained, "The Ragefire is mine, it obeys my will. I wish it only to affect mortals and so it will. Soon it will consume this whole planet, subjugating all to my will."

"Not if they kill each other first," Raruma commented eying the growing piles of dead.

"Oh ye of little faith," Abulaz chuckled as he raised his arms high.

Instantly every mortal threw back their head and the screamed as the fires shot upwards from their forms. The flames merged high overhead, becoming a column of fire that shot straight upwards and disappeared into the roof. Somehow Kasaroz knew that fire would bypass the mundane matter of rock and stone and head straight for the sky, casting its baleful influence for miles around.

Abulaz shouted in elation, "The Ragefire spreads! It will shower down upon this city and all shall feel its touch. None can escape its power; all shall serve the will of Abulaz!"

Behind them the Red Angel roared, "Khorne demands blood! You send others out to fight your battles. Your cowardice displeases the Skull Throne and you shall pay for your insult to the Lord of Skulls!"

In response Abulaz merely waved his hands wide and called, "Go forth and spread the fire, share the Ragefire with any and all you find. First this city, then this world, make it so all serve me!"

With a feral roar the cultists turned and ran from the cavern, headed for the surface and the prospect of bloodshed. Kasarox watched them go, uncertain whether this was a promising development or not. He decided to hedge his odds and said, "My lord there are still corpse-worshippers above. They will try to resist us."

Abulaz laughed, "They can try but it matters not. Yet if you are worried then you can send forth the Daemon Engines and our Brethren. They can handle any resistance the False Emperors lackeys can muster."

Kasarox complied, voxing orders for the Word Bearers to follow the cultists towards the surface. Meanwhile Abulaz turned back to the Red Angel and proclaimed, "Don't think I am finished with you yet. There's so much more I want from you before we are done."


	24. Chapter 24

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 24**

The Rhino rumbled underneath him, its tread grinding on the Ferrocrete road. It was racing along at combat speed, passing through the industrial centres of western Oriella. The sooty buildings flashed past, lined with ramshackle tenements and filthy slums. The whole scene was cast an eerie red, the light of the distant column of fire staining everything with its foulness. It made everything seem strange, turning the most mundane of sights into a vision of surreal horror.

Standing in the open crew hatch Toran could see it all as they drove past. He could see the mobs of panicking people, all of them filled with terror at the unnatural calamity. The Storm Heralds had no time to reassure these people though; they had to move fast and could not stop for anything. Toran's convoy consisted of all the armoured vehicles the Storm Heralds had only just recent stowed, now deployed for combat once more. There were Rhinos and Razorbacks, Predators, Hunters and Stalker tanks, supported by Land Speeders, Storm Talons and a single Land Raider.

As they hurtled through the city Toran was talking on the vox saying, "We are minutes from our objective, are you ready?"

From afar came the voice of First-Sheriff Karsa, the gruff woman replying, "I have sappers working to breach all the tunnels under the river and all the bridges save one were demolished at the start of the war. The evacuation has been restarted; we're moving people out as fast as we can."

Toran was glad to hear it and said, "Make haste, my Librarian tells me that this phenomenon is temporarily confined to the eastern side of the river. We must get every untainted soul out of range before the contamination spreads."

There was a long pause and then Karsa replied, "I not sure that's possible, I am Cadia-born, I know how quickly this sort of madness can grow."

"Let me worry about that," Toran stated, "You concentrate on evacuating the civilians, you need to get this done."

"I've got every soldier I can spare working on it," Karsa replied, "But I'm not sure there anywhere on this planet that will be safe. The Gate was no stranger to the machinations of Chaos so I know we have only two options. One, find the source of this sorcery and annihilate it. Two, level the entire city from orbit, it's the only way to be sure."

Toran knew she was right and he said, "It's already too late for option one so that leaves option two. But the civilian casualties would be unacceptably high; we need to get them to safety."

Karsa sounded grim as she informed him, "There won't be enough time."

The Rhino jostled under Toran as he determinedly stated, "We will buy you more time."

Karsa gasped in shock, "You intend to fight against that madness, you're going to try to hold it back?"

Toran confirmed, "We will place ourselves as a firebreak to stop the spread of the taint, the enemy will have to fight past us to reach you."

"If the Word Bearers are behind this then you can't hope to survive for long," Karsa exclaimed, "Let me send reinforcements."

"Negative," Toran barked, "Concentrate on evacuating the civilians, we will buy you as much time as we can before the Thunderchild levels this whole city from orbit. Magma-bombs are our only hope to end this madness."

"You can't survive this," Karsa stated frankly, "You're going to die".

"Then we shall die in service to the Emperor, it is our duty to protect His people," Toran replied sternly, "Now concentrate on yours and get these people out!"

With that Toran snapped off the vox. Ahead he saw the soaring towers of the bridge looming. It was a massive structure, a roadway wide enough for a Titan to bestride suspended by Plasteel cables as wide as an Astartes. This bridge stretched out for two miles in front of him, crossing the entire length of the river to the eastern bank, beyond which the dreaming spires burned. There were three square towers, one at each end of the bridge and one in the middle. This was Toran's destination, the only way to cross the river and it was here that the Storm Heralds would make their stand.

At full pace the convoy drove onto the bridge, which was filled with discarded ground-cabs. The convoy was barely slowed by these vehicles, crushing the civilian machines under their mighty treads with contemptuous ease. Toran was thrown back and forth as the Rhino smashed its way forward, knocking aside all resistance, but he held on fiercely as the Storm Heralds made their way to the centre of the bridge. Under the central tower the convoy stopped, disgorging Space Marines with practised speed.

Toran leapt over the roof and his boots slammed onto the Ferrocrete surface of the bridge. He was already barking orders as he touched down, "Spread out and clear those ground-cabs, I want clear lines of fire right to the far end. Tanks form a line here, anti-air assets evenly spread. Devastators take up elevated positions, Scouts and snipers get up into the tower, I want suppressing fire along the whole length of the road. Tactical Squads spread out and find cover, Assault squads stand by as reserves. We will hold here and bleed them as they come, then meet them blade to blade."

As the Third Company moved to obey Toran was approached by his command squad and he saw they were ready and eager for the fight. Yet Persion spoke up to ask, "Captain, should we not hold the western bank? We could bottle the foe up on the bridge far easier from there."

Toran was about to answer but Arvael spoke up to say, "Not an option, we face a psychic infection, a virus of the mind. If even one infected soul sets foot on the western bank we have already lost. We have to face them here, over the water, it is our only chance."

At that point Jediah interjected, "I don't understand, how in the name of sanity is water supposed to be a barrier to psychic corruption? It makes no sense!"

Arvael explained patiently, "Psionic powers don't conform to the bounds of sanity, they conform to metaphysical conventions. Symbolic concepts define their behaviour; ideas not physics set their limits. The enemy has elected to manifest their taint as fire and water is the symbolic opposite of flame. They can't spread the corruption unless someone physically carries it across the bridge."

Persion asked doubtfully, "So what's stopping them changing their taint to some other form?"

"We are," Furion declared boldly, "We shall draw their attention and hold them in a fixed battle. They shall have to deal with us before they can think of anything else."

Then Novak proclaimed, "Good, I want to kill something. My blade needs a righteous battle to cleanse its spirit."

Toran was glad to see Novak was chomping at the bit for a fight. It was a testament to the Emperor's genius design, only an hour Novak had been in a coma, now he was up and ready to fight. Though Apothecary Memnos was notably hanging around to keep an eye upon him. Toran nodded and said, "Spread out, inspect the line and make sure we are ready. The enemy can't miss us here, they will be upon us soon."

The squad complied but Furion held back and waited for them to clear out, then he approached Toran and inquired, "Captain, what have we heard from the Ashen Knights?"

Toran sighed, "Nothing, their base was in the east so we have to assume they would be caught up in the madness. Either they have been overrun or withdrawn already, have no way to know."

Furion looked east and asked, "Do you think they would join us?"

"Not a chance," Toran growled angrily, "They don't care about this world and they certainly don't care about us. We are on our own here; it all rests upon us now."

Furion nodded and moved off, inspecting the line and offering inspiring words to the Initiates. Toran headed off in the other direction, doing the same for his Brothers. It was not long until he came across the personages of Lorath and Orath; they were standing before the Land Raider and seemed to be discussing something while their squads listened in. Toran strode up to them and barked, "Why aren't you ready?!"

The pair turned to face him and Lorath replied, "Apologies Captain, there is a matter of import to address."

Toran gritted his teeth, they didn't have time for this but he had never been one to slap down his Marine's concerns. Trying not to snap he said, "Explain quickly."

Orath stepped in and exclaimed, "Simply put, we can't figure out why we're doing this."

Toran was surprised and repeated, "We are drawing the enemy out, making them meet us where we can hold them in a chokepoint."

"No," Orath replied briskly, "I meant why are we risking valuable Astartes in an unwinnable battle? This city is lost already, Chaos has tainted it. The foe will surely come with their full force, the tainted and the Traitor Marines with them. We should withdraw immediately and level this city from orbit, before the taint can spread to the rest of the planet."

Lorath nodded and said, "I can't believe I'm agreeing with Orath but he's right. I would gladly die to bring victory before the Emperor, but there is no victory to be had here, no glory to be won. We are throwing away our lives for no purpose; we can't hope to win this fight."

Toran was shocked to hear that and responded, "What of the civilians, would you abandon them?"

Orath scoffed, "Why not, these mortals aren't important. What are any number of civilians to the Imperium save a drop in an ocean? To throw away a Battle Company for a few million civilians is a worthless trade, not when we won't see any glory for this act."

Toran was stunned to hear such casual disdain for mortal lives, he wanted to rebuke the pair most sternly but in the corner of his eye he saw the rest of the squads were listening in. Every Brother was waiting to hear his response and all of them were asking the same question. Toran swallowed his first impulse to yell as he realised this needed addressing. It hadn't even occurred to him that the Storm Heralds wouldn't want to fight, but he needed to explain why they must do so, he had to show the Marines their purpose here.

Toran drew in a breath and explained, "You are right to say there is no glory here, no shining victory to be won, but our purpose goes beyond personal ambition. We fight not for glory but out of our duty to serve Him on Terra. The Emperor declared that the Astartes shall be defenders of humanity; the Bulwark against the Terror. He commands us to stand between humanity and the monsters in the dark. We are the champions of humanity, the last hope in an eclipse of evil. We hold our ground, when all else would flee, and no enemy shall be suffered to pass! We are the Space Marines and we shall know no fear!"

Everybody had fallen silent and Toran raised his voice to proclaim, "Know this each of you, we may die this day but for every minute we can delay the enemy another hundred innocent souls may escape the coming destruction. For myself I choose to make my stand and put my life on the line for the sake of the Emperor's people. I shall not order you to remain but I ask you to stand with me. I ask you all, here and now, to fight beside me and prove once again that we are the Emperor's Storm!"

As one the Astartes lifted their voices and shouted, "We are His wrath!"

Cheers broke out and as the Astartes affirmed their creed and Lorath declared, "I was blind, but now I see my duty clearly. I will stand with you, till the last beat of my hearts!"

"If he's staying then I'm staying," Orath stated determinedly, "Have it said that Terminators retreated from the foe… Frak that!"

Toran smiled under his helm and knew his Brothers understood their duty now. He faced his Company and declared, "I am glad to have you with me. You are heroes all and I would have no others by my side at the end. Now make ready, the enemy approaches but so long as one Storm Herald yet remains then none shall pass!"


	25. Chapter 25

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 25**

Across the city a sound arose, small at first but growing louder second by second. It rang in the libraries and the data-stacks, it echoed in the lecture halls and the student dorms, filling every avenue with its clamour. It was a shriek torn from tens of thousands of throats, the sound of vast numbers of people all crying aloud as one. It was feral and savage, with no trace of sanity left within it. It was the echo of mankind's most barbarous instincts, the urge to destroy and crush all beneath one's boot. It was the distilled essence of a million pogroms and genocides, the raw spirit that had spawned massacres and racial slaughters across the aeons. Bound within it was the darkness and barbarity of the human soul and it blanketed Oriella with its savagery.

Toran could hear it from where he was standing, gripping his Master-crafted bolter tightly and peering down the bridge towards the east. In the distance the column of flame was breaking up, splitting into numerous lesser flickers. Yet Toran wasn't reassured, the flame wasn't dying, merely spreading out into the city, and it was coming this way. Toran spared a second to glance down the line of blue-clad Astartes, the Storm Heralds holding their position with resolution and courage. Toran was proud to be leading them and once more he felt blessed to have such valiant heroes beside him. No matter what happened here today he was confident that the Storm Heralds would fight to the last and die upholding the noblest traditions of the Chapter.

He was distracted by the voice of Arvael, who whispered, "This was once a city of learning and scholarship, now it is the home to madness and ignorance. Chaos has touched this city, is there nothing the enemy cannot defile?"

Toran leaned over and said, "The stain is vile indeed, but take heart. The people are being evacuated even now and they take their scholarly spirit with them. They can rebuild elsewhere, this city may fall but we shall save this world's soul."

Arvael went quiet and Toran turned his attention to Persion and asked, "Can you reach our ship?"

The communication specialist nodded replying, "The Thunderchild is in position, Magma-bombs are locked on target. They can obliterate this city with a single volley; they only await your word."

"Not yet," Toran firmly stated "We still have thousands of civilians to save, tell them to wait until the last of us falls. When we go silent, that is the sign that the time has run out."

"I'll keep the link open as long as I can," Persion replied, "But I take satisfaction in knowing that we shall take the enemy with us into death."

Toran was about to say something reassuring but right then a cry came down from the scout-snipers high above, "Movement!"

Toran's helm snapped forward and he ordered, "Stand ready Brothers, hold the line and let none pass our guard. Wait for my signal but then fire at will, fast-attack assets, concentrate on the far bank and whittle down their numbers. Everyone else, focus on the bridge, we will choke it with the piles of their dead. Chaplain Furion, would you be so good as to address the Company?"

From further down the line Furion's voice arose and declaring, "Brothers, know that even as we stand here the people of this world are calling out to the Emperor for salvation. The innocent and the helpless are praying for deliverance, they cry out for His intervention and in His great mercy the Emperor has sent us to be the answer those prayers! His eyes are upon us, His will is our command and He expects that we shall not take one step back. So stand fast Storm Heralds and know that our deeds shall echo in eternity, for He on Terra is watching!"

The words stoked Storm Herald's determination and every Astartes gripped his weapon tighter, swearing to not take one step back. They had their duty, they had their purpose and they knew what they were fighting against. A desperate battle against impossible odds with the fate of a world on the line, what else could any Space Marine wish for?

Toran felt a bead of sweat form on the back of his neck but his breathing was steady and his grip certain. He was made for this, it was the reason for his being and a part of soul exulted at the prospect of battle. Then there was a susurrus from the far end of the bridge, seconds before the horizon erupted with bodies. From behind the colleges and towers of the east a solid wall of flesh emerged, thousands upon thousands of people pouring out of nowhere. They filled the spaces before the bridge, cramming into narrow alleys and rushing along the embankments, their numbers swelling second by second until they became a solid wall of flesh. They were all running flat out towards the bridge, moving as fast as humanly possible with feral rage filling their faces.

Toran's enhanced sight clearly picked out individuals in the crowd, there were cultists and mutants in vast numbers, more than he had ever suspected to survive the war but they were not alone. Alongside them ran common men and women, labourers, housewives, scholars and soldiers, many were clad in ragged clothes and their feet bled from dashing over rubble but they cared not. Each face was filled with an insane blood-rage, a savage mask of raw bestial anger, without a trace of intelligence or reason. Each individual had tiny licking flames over their bodies, but they did not burn, it merely seemed to make them angrier. There was no distinction between them anymore, whatever they had been in life was gone, now they were no more than rabid animals.

Among the horde Toran spied Traitor Marines and looming Daemon engines but they were hanging back, letting their minions go first to soak up the defender's fire. Toran heard Arvael mutter, "The ragefire is within them, they are lost forever. We can't suffer a single one to live."

Toran knew it to be true but his strategy was not yet complete and he called aloud, "Hold and wait for my order!"

The heaving mass of insane maniacs piled onto the bridge, punching and kicking to make room. Many were clubbed down and crushed underfoot but it made no difference to the mass of flesh. It was like an entire city had spontaneously risen up and thrown themselves at the Storm Heralds, an overwhelming tide of savagery all directed at the thin blue line set against them. Toran watched them close and he called, "Hold Brothers, let them bunch up. Hold, hold… Now Fire!"

Instantly the Astartes opened up, a surge of blazing firepower that erupted like a horizontal blizzard. First the vehicles uttered their fury, Predators, Razorbacks, Whirlwinds and a Land Raider all firing simultaneously. The salvo screamed into the packed mass of foes and blew bodies apart, throwing dismembered limbs high to shower down over the survivors. Blood fell like rain, coating the infected people head to toe, but they cared not and pressed forwards. Next the Heavy Weapons opened fire, blazing Devastators and Tactical Marines letting fly with Missiles and Heavy Bolters. The waves of firepower smote the onrushing crowds, scything them down like ripened crops. Hundreds of people fell to the fury of the Storm Heralds but the sheer insanity of their rage drove them on and they advanced into the face of overwhelming firepower heedless of their losses.

Toran held his weapon sure and steady as he watched the first foes step within bolter range and then the whole line erupted as every Astartes let fly. A solid wall of bolt-rounds exploded outwards, smashing into the front rank of foes and blowing them apart. It was akin to a threshing machine in action, utterly decimating anything that presented itself. Bodies exploded under the hail of mass-reactives, spraying gore everywhere and turning the air itself red as a mist of blood hung in mid-air.

Against any other foe such a potent defence would have broken the will of the enemy. The devastation and carnage would have shattered any mortal spirit, breaking their hopes and courage in a heartbeat. Even Traitor Astartes would have been given pause, seeing the futility of advancing into such firepower but this was no normal foe. The infected people had no minds of their own anymore, only a feral rage and an overwhelming compulsion to shed blood. They pressed forwards into the face to death, uncaring for their own lives. Toran emptied his clip at the solid wall of flesh, then another and another. Every shot was a kill, every bolt-round ending an enemy's life but it made no difference. The heaving scrum pressed forward, jumping over their dead in an insane rush. The Storm Heralds had slain thousands already but it was only slowing the horde down, they couldn't stop them with ranged firepower.

Toran spied the darting forms of Land Speeders and Storm Talons hurtling past, strafing the far bank in an attempt to stem the tide. Hundreds were blown apart with flurries of rockets and heavy rounds but it made no difference and the heaving ranks of foes raced on regardless. High overhead scouts rained down fire, trying to pick off leaders but there was no leadership to be found here. The people were driven by feral rage and there was no thought in their heads save their staggering rage.

Toran saw the rabid mob closing, faster and more ferocious than he had ever thought possible. He saw their charge looming and called, "Draw blades!" Instantly the Storm Heralds took up their melee weapons, moments before the screaming multitudes hit their line. Toran felt the sheer weight of the horde hit him full on and had he not been gene-enhanced and clad in ceramite armour the force of it would have bowled him over.

Few of the people had weapons but their savagery was a weapon all its own and they tried to drown the Astartes with sheer numbers. Toran gritted his teeth and met them with wide sweeps of his relic sword, he lopped off limbs and bisected heads but for everyone he cut down five more would take their place. A woman leapt on his sword arm, trying to claw at the gaps in his plate with flame covered nails. Toran's arm was pinned but his free hand fell to his belt and drew a spare combat knife, instantly he stabbed the woman through the neck and shook off her corpse but he found no respite.

All around the Storm Heralds were fighting tooth and nail to hold the line, meeting savage fury with shining resolution and unbreakable defiance. Furion was smiting men down with his Crozius, Storm-Heart blazing incandescently with stuttering bursts of light and energy. He crushed skulls and broke ribcages as he roared, "Hold the line Brothers! None shall pass!"

Elsewhere Arvael swept his arm wide and a telekinetic blast threw a score of foes away, sending thrashing bodies over the bridge's rampart to drown in the river far below. He cleared a tiny space in the horde but it was instantly filled by more enemies and the Librarian was forced to meet them with his Morningstar in hand. Meanwhile Jediah and Persion were fighting side by side, their weapons cleaving all before them and reaping a most fearful tally. By comparison Novak's blade was a smear of light, hacking and smashing anything that came near him. It wasn't his most elegant fight but it was effective and cost the enemy dear. Memnos stood near him, guarding his flank and reaping a tally of his own with a chainsword that spewed gore from its spinning blades.

At the centre of the line Orath's Terminators were holding steady like a rock in a fast moving river. Their weapons rose and fell with metronomic pace, a regular unbreakable rhythm that smote anything that came near them. Thunder hammers and lighting claws wreaked utter ruin and upon that unbreakable bastion the Storm Herald's line hinged, a harbour of courage and determination set against an ocean of feral rage.

Carnage and death were everywhere but the Storm Heralds were holding true, their line was steady and they were killing enemies by the thousand. In the heart of the fight Toran dared to believe for a moment that they could do this, that they could hold the line indefinitely. But then a cry went up, "Traitor Marines approach!"

Toran knew it was true and he snarled in fury, "Looks like the warm-up is done; now the real fight begins."


	26. Chapter 26

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 26**

The man thrashed under his boot, biting and clawing in a rabid frenzy. His nails broke upon the ceramite but he cared not, the mortal twisted and writhed in a futile attempt to draw blood, his eyes weeping blood and sorcerous flames running over his arms. Ulysses grimaced in disgust at the mindless frenzy and increased the pressure of his foot. A second later there was the crunch of ribs breaking and the man's chest collapsed, emitting a faint gasp as he died. Ulysses sneered at the mortal and wiped his boot clean and then lifted his head. All around him the base of the Ashen Knights was falling silent, the fierce battle winding up with short bursts of firepower. Everywhere he looked Intercessors, Hellblasters and Aggressors, Inceptors and Reivers were rooting out surviving mortals, cutting them down without remorse.

The battle had sprung up from nowhere, the madness falling from the skies as flickering wisps of fire. The base had been coated in the taint and any of the chattels touched by it had gone insane. They had thrown themselves at each other and their former masters with rabid fervour, seeking only to kill and maim. Thankfully the Primaris had proved immune to the taint and had fought back, culling their own servants in droves. Ulysses had hastily donned his armour and joined them in the fray, coating his Crozius with the blood of the fallen.

The Master of Sanctity had overseen the clearing of the base; it had been a swift and brutal cull that had left no mortals alive. Sadly the same could not be said for the internment camps beyond the base. The heaving masses of infected people had thrown their bodies at the razorwire and ripped it down, killing many of their own in the process. The Ashen Knights had imprisoned a quarter of a million civilians in those pens and now they were all loose and infected by the foul insanity of Chaos. Strangely they had not approached the Ashen Knight's base, instead haring off into the city, drawn away by something greater. Ulysses was secretly glad, he knew any Primaris Marines was a match for five-score men but even he doubted they could survive against an enemy that outnumbered them eight hundred to one.

Ulysses wondered where they had gone for a moment, then answered his own question. On the horizon the mighty column of flame was breaking up, shattering into numerous smaller embers. It had been that infernal blaze that had spread the taint over the eastern city, dropping wisps of flame to infect any it touched. Ulysses instinctively knew that this abomination of Chaos was contagious, it would spread from person to person with the merest touch.

Ulysses had faced Chaos before, he had confronted the tides of insanity and he knew well its horrifying power. His Chaplaincy training told him that no mortal sorcerer, not even a Traitor Marine could channel such might. No, this nightmare could only be born from Daemonic strength, the rawest, foulest wellspring of Chaos. Such entities had been the bane of entire planets and the doom of Astartes Chapters, there could be no doubt that the Ashen Knights now faced their sternest challenge.

Ulysses spent a moment assessing the threat before him and determined that with armoured and aerial support the Ashen Knights could hunt down the frothing madmen filling this city. Yet the Traitor Marines were a different matter, they had to be behind this madness and they would not hesitate to exploit it. If they had indeed summoned forth Daemons then the coming battle would be dire beyond measure. Ulysses was not accustomed to doubt or hesitation but he did not like the odds. The outcome of the battle was uncertain and the scope of the enemy's power was unknown. There was no doubt that the Ashen Knights would fight bravely and well but if the situation was as bad as he suspected, then they might well be facing the prospect of defeat.

Ulysses instantly determined that he needed to speak to his Lord-Marshall and he set forth at once, seeking out Achilles. Swiftly Ulysses made his way through the base, seeing the Ashen Knights clearing away the piles of the dead. The Primaris Marines looked stunned by the sudden turn of events, their armour glowing gore-red in the light of the diabolical flames. Ulysses was in a rush but his duty required him to pause and speak to them, offering reassurance and steeling their spines for the travails ahead. He could see in their eyes that they were bewildered by events but he assumed an unyielding bearing and his stern deportment stiffened their resolve.

Eventually he came to the Crusader Queen and here he found Lord-Marshall Achilles, wiping the blood of the tainted from Despoiler. Practici Elikos was with him, having a harder time cleansing gore from a clogged chainsword but looking no less determined to fight. Ulysses strode up to the pair and called out, "Lord-Marshall, the base is secured. The chattels were infected but we slew them all."

Achilles sheathed his sword and inquired, "What about the rest?"

Ulysses glumly replied, "We cut down many of the infected but the majority fled into the city. I assume that they are being drawn away by a darker power; the enemy is amassing in numbers beyond counting."

"Very well," Achilles stated, "We shall hold here."

Ulysses blinked in surprise and said, "But surely we must strike first. We should hunt down those wretched degenerates, we must reduce their numbers before they can amass their full might."

Achilles faced the Master of Sanctity and explained, "That is redundant, this world is lost we are withdrawing back to orbit."

Elikos butted in, sounding shocked, "But the war is not over."

Achilles was grim as he said, "This situation has already gone too far, the filth of Chaos has manifested fully and I smell the stench of the Daemonic upon this world. This planet is unclean and so it must be purged. The unholy must be burnt out with extreme prejudice; no trace can be allowed to remain."

Ulysses knew all too well what that involved and he whispered, "The Exterminatus."

"Indeed," Achilles confirmed, "Just as with Colchis, the lingering presence of Chaos will endure. I will not suffer the enemy to claim another world; no purgation is too extreme. The Iconoclast is dispatching Overlord gunships to retrieve us, the second that the last Ashen Knight embarks she will launch a payload of virus bombs. This planet shall be swept clean."

Elikos looked unsure and said, "Is that truly necessary? The taint cannot have spread beyond this one city, perhaps a limited bombardment could…"

"No," Achilles interrupted, "The chances of the taint surviving are too great to risk, left unchecked it could overrun this whole sector. I have no wish to watch another world burn but it is necessary, the God-Emperor decrees that it is better to lose one world than a hundred. Harden your hearts and put the cost of victory from your mind, the God-Emperor's will must be obeyed."

Ulysses lowered his head and said, "I too harboured hopes of defeating Chaos here, but that hour is past. We shall remove ourselves from this location and…"

At that moment an Intercessor ran up to the commanders and presented a short bow before crying, "My lords, I have urgent news!"

Achilles' head snapped around and he snapped, "Well don't just stand there, spit it out."

The Intercessor drew in a breath and exclaimed, "Orbital scans reveal another force in the field. It is the Storm Heralds, they have advanced into the path of the enemy. They seek to engage the foe head-on!"

Ulysses' jaw fell under his helm and he spat, "What?! Where are they?"

The Intercessor explained, "They have seized the main bridge over the river and confront the bulk of the enemy force. They have drawn a line between the two halves of the city and seek to deny the foe's advance, while an evacuation of the civilians is underway."

Ulysses was stunned by that announcement but it was Achilles who snorted, "What sort of idiocy is this? What can they possibly hope to accomplish with such futile bravado?"

Elikos agreed, "This is a tactical error they cannot deny the spread of Chaos, those civilians won't get very far before they are overrun. The Storm Heralds fight for a cause already lost, they will die for nothing save hollow pride."

Achilles shook his head and declared, "If they wish to throw their lives away so pointlessly then we shall let them. We will withdraw and leave them to their folly."

Ulysses couldn't believe what he was hearing and from his lips spilled the word, "No!"

Achilles' head snapped around and he barked, "What was that?"

Ulysses drew in a breath and he exclaimed, "We cannot withdraw, not now we have seen the battle set out before us. We must stay and fight to the bitter end!"

Elikos sounded befuddled as he spluttered, "But you just said…"

"The situation has changed," Ulysses snapped, "The Storm Heralds are making a stand and we must do the same."

Unfortunately Achilles did not sound convinced as he declaimed, "This world is lost, it is irredeemably corrupt. The enemy has summoned Chaos itself and the correct strategic move is to cut the Imperium's losses and save our own forces for the next battle."

Yet Ulysses would not be dissuaded and declared, "This is not about strategy, this is about principle. Those old Astartes have chosen to stay and fight, they are setting a yardstick of courage and honour and it is one we cannot ignore. We thought them weak, we held them to be renegades but they have passed the test, in this hour it is they not we who stands true and stalwart. Strange as they are, they fight for the God-Emperor and none can find them wanting. The same test now lies before the Ashen Knights and we must rise to the challenge or be forever condemned as cowards!"

Achilles shook his head and said, "The Primaris are not beholden to the measure of the old Astartes, we do not waste time with tired doctrines and pointless moralising. We get the job done, that is who we are."

Ulysses was pleading now as he stated, "I know our hearts all too well, we Ashen Knights are aggressive and unforgiving by nature. It is our greatest strength but it is also our weakness, a flaw that would drag us down into infamy if we allow it. We must balance our destructive side with humility, temperance and faith. At this moment it is we who are judged and if we falter then we shall begin a slide into sin from which there shall be no return. Our acts this day will define us evermore."

Achilles was silent for a long moment and his gaze was far away as Ulysses held his breath. Then he whispered, "By the Throne… you're right."

Elikos started in surprise and said, "Excuse me?"

Achilles opened his vox and cried, "Brethren, the God-Emperor calls the Ashen Knights to war! Gather your arms and prepare for battle and find me a Repulsor, the Crusader Queen is too slow in an urban environment."

Ulysses bowed his head and said, "What is your intent?"

Achilles answered, "We shall not let the Storm Heralds stand alone, we shall ride forth and give battle to the foe. Victory or death await but either way none shall find the Ashen Knights wanting."

Ulysses bowed his head and said, "I would be honoured to ride alongside you Lord-Marshall."

Achilles smiled coldly and said "It is I who would be honoured, you reminded me of my duty. You reminded me that one day I must stand before the God-Emperor and justify my deeds in life. How could I ever explain to Him that the Ashen Knights forsook noble warriors to die alone?"

Ulysses saluted with the sign of the Aquila and said, "To war then, Imperator Vult!"

Achilles saluted back and ordered, "For the God-Emperor, to your vehicles."

Ulysses turned and strode away, Elikos followed him and the Practici said, "I have never heard you speak thus, what inspired you so?"

Ulysses grinned savagely and replied, "Let the Storm Heralds stand while the Ashen Knights run away… it will be a cold day in hell before I suffer such a thing to pass!"


	27. Chapter 27

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 27**

Deep underground the cavern was filled with chanting rings of Word Bearers, murmuring arcane incantations with their eyes closed. They were repeating words from the Book of Lorgar, blessed invocations and abjurations that were pleasing unto the Neverborn. Sadly it seemed to be having little effect, for the prisoner at the heart of the circle was incensed beyond measure. Still bound by the wards of the ritual circle the Red Angel thrashed in its chains. The Daemon was like a blazing star, spilling out flames in all directions. It raged and hollered in umbrage at the offence done unto it, the stealing of its power. The Daemon beat upon the walls of its gaol with waves of raw fire, spilling flames carelessly but it could not break free and its fires remained within the confines of the circle.

Watching this from the sidelines Kasarox was amazed by what he saw, by the skill and daring on display. Dark Apostle Abulaz was stood right before the circle, directing the chanting with his arms spread wide. Kasarox had only just begun to think of his lord as an incompetent deceiver but now he was stunned by the mastery on display. The Dark Apostle had revealed knowledge and control beyond belief and the Coryphaus dreaded the implications.

Besides him Raruma whispered, "This is a mistake, it will end in disaster."

From the other side Vulak hissed, "Silence, the Dark Apostle knows what he is doing."

Rarum sneered, "Stop licking his boots for one minute and try to think. No mortal can bind an entity of the sixth host. Abulaz is playing with forces beyond his control; he tries to mount a steed that cannot be tamed."

Vulak swallowed and admitted, "It is difficult to believe and yet he is doing it."

Kasarox looked upon the ritual and said, "I don't know, it doesn't seem possible but what can we do? Abulaz has already summoned the Daemon, from now on he either succeeds or we all die."

Trapped in the circle the Red Angel cried, "This power is not for you, it is too much!"

Yet Abulaz cried, "Its mine, all of it! The power, the knowledge and the majesty, all mine!"

"Fool," the Daemon roared as it redoubled its efforts to escape, "I shall not be bound!"

Abulaz wasn't listening though and uttered, "I am your master now! All shall serve me when I ascend. I shall make that smug cur Erebus grovel at my feet, Kor Phaeron shall weep when I take my revenge for being cast out!"

Kasarox swallowed in apprehension and asked, "I've never seen such a ritual, what is he doing?"

Raruma whispered, "He's trying to syphon off the Red Angel's might, to take its power for his own. He thinks to steal the raw potency of Chaos for himself and ascend into the Warp on wings of fire."

"Daemonhood?" Kasarox whispered in awe of his master's ambition, "Is such a thing possible?"

Vulak sounded nervous as he said, "Nothing in the Book of Lorgar supports this, power is the gift of the Warp but too much is worse than none at all. Everything I thought I knew says he should have devolved into a spawn by now but he's still here."

Raruma spat, "He's making this up as he goes, improvising with no idea of the consequences. This is going to end badly."

Kasarox was both amazed and aghast, he could barely comprehend the scope of the power at play. Abulaz was trying to ascend to Daemonhood with his own will, to take what only the Gods should be able to bestow. The audacity was staggering, as were the potential consequences if anything went wrong. Behind him Vulak whispered, "Perhaps… it would be advisable to withdraw to a safer location."

Raruma retorted, "I think the only safe place at this point would be on another planet."

Yet Kasarox had stopped listening to the pair for he was distracted by a most worrying sight. Abulaz was still standing before the ritual circle with his arms held out before him but now he was sweating profusely. His hands were shaking and his knees looked ready to buckle while his face screwed up in agony. The cause of this was obvious to see, the Red Angel was still blazing incandescently yet it was no longer a raging inferno. Instead it had focused its power down to a narrow beam of concentrated energy. It was like the difference between a flamer and a Melta-gun, far less indiscriminate but more potent in every way. The unholy beam was boring into the invisible walls of the circle, drilling into their etheric substrata with unyielding focus.

Kasarox swallowed in trepidation and asked, "What's happening?!"

Raruma answered with a gasp of horror, "We underestimated its cunning, the Red Angel is breaking loose!"

Kasarox felt a surge of alarm and he desperately cast about for some way to intervene but there was nothing he could do. He was no sorcerer, no Dark Apostle, he was a warrior and he was completely out of his depth. Before his shocked eyes the Red Angel bored through the protective wards, tunnelling its way to freedom. Abulaz was practically on his knees now and he snarled between gritted teeth, "No, no, no… you will obey me!"

But it was hopeless, the Red Angel was fury and power incarnate and it laughed aloud as it felt its bondage breaking. Then with a terrifying crash the wards shattered, etheric walls collapsed and the ritual circle evaporated into nothing. Abulaz shrieked in panic as the Red Angel soared free, breaking its chains as if they were nothing. Then the Daemon flew high above the stunned Word Bearers, red flames spilling out in all directions as it roared in triumph.

Abulaz promptly collapsed in exhaustion but Vulak screamed, "Run!"

Kasarox instinctively obeyed, trying to flee before the wrath of the Daemon but the Red Angel waved an arm and he was frozen to the spot. He tried to move but his boots seemed to be welded to the floor and no matter how he thrashed he could not escape. The Red Angel loomed over them all and its laughter was deep and sonorous, shaking their bones with its unholy timbre. Kasarox looked up, helpless to resist as the Daemon bellowed, "Now who is the master?!"

Abulaz grovelled pathetically on the floor and Kasarox felt his contempt for the Dark Apostle swell in his hearts. Gone the was the mighty and powerful lord, now he seemed a worthless wretch, an incompetent fool who had tried to grasp ultimate power only to be burned by it. The last morsel of Kasarox's respect evaporated and he hissed, "You damn fool, you've killed us all."

Abulaz was trying to plead, "Mighty one, we beseech you…"

"Weak coward," the Red Angel sneered, "You shall taste my vengeance, but first this body fails, I need a new host."

Somehow Kasarox felt the Daemon's attention pass over him but the Red Angel growled, "Too mundane." Raruma was examined next but the Daemon spat, "Already occupied." Then it spied Vulak and it hissed, "Perfect."

The First Acolyte raised his arms and tried to run but he was immobilised and could not stop what was coming, all he could do was scream as the Daemon pounced upon him. Effortlessly the Red Angel abandoned its scorched bones, flying towards the pinned Chaos Marine as a burning comet. Then the inferno engulfed the screaming Word Bearer and his body disappeared in a red bonfire.

Kasarox shielded his eyes from the blazing light but he could see the flames being absorbed into Vulak's flesh, changing it right before his eyes. As he watched the body of Vulak began to stretch, growing taller and gaining muscles mass in seconds. The Ceramite armour cracked and split, becoming brass plates over iron-hard skin. The legs snapped and reformed as back-jointed hind-quarters manifested, tipped with cloven hoofs. The arms swelled with muscles and black claws grew from the hands while from the back sprouted a pair of leathery wings, growing into vast pinions that shimmered with wisps of fire. Coarse hair grew all over the body as the Mark of Khorne appeared upon its chest and flames swirled around the Daemon's hands solidifying to becoming a double-headed axe as long as an Astartes.

Worse of all was the head which began to stretch and broaden, taking on a bestial aspect. Thick fur covered it as it changed into a goat's skull, with sharp fangs and twin curling horns that were capped with dull-iron. A long black tongue rolled out of the mouth and a vicious laugh emerged as the Red Angel took on a new form. Gone was the body of Vulak, his soul now a plaything of the Daemon. Now there stood a butcher lord, a master of slaughter, an avatar of insensate rage: a Bloodthirster of Khorne.

Kasarox stood utterly dumbfounded, looking up at the Daemon looming over him, unable to grasp the scale of the threat. His hearts quailed in awe and dread at the sight of the Blood God's power made manifest and all he could do was stand there with his mouth agape as the Red Angel boomed with laughter. The only thing about it that was unchanged was its voice and it cried, "Freedom is mine!" The assembled Word Bearers tried to abase themselves, to appease the Daemon in their midst but the Red Angel looked down upon them and sneered, "Cowards and weaklings, you shame the Blood-God with your sly ways."

Abulaz was closest to it and he begged, "We shall serve you mighty one, we shall do your bidding."

Kasarox sneered at the sight and muttered, "It's too late for that idiot, you can't weasel your way out of this one."

Meanwhile the Red Angel hissed, "Serve? There is no thought of service for the Blood God, there is only the rage and the passion and the bloodlust. You wanted to taste the power of Khorne, well now you shall drown in it!"

With that the Red Angel opened its goat's mouth and vomited out a stream of fire. The flames inundated Abulaz and rolled on, filling the cavern with the bright energies of the Warp. Kasarox felt the waves flow over him and at their merest touch his soul ignited with power. He experienced a rushing torrent of strength and passion filling him up, crackling along every nerve and swelling his muscles with raw power. There was hatred in that power, frothing anger and towering rage, the purest aspect of mankind's dark heart and mindless savagery contained within. Kasarox's body creaked with the power of the Blood God and for the first time he knew what it was to be blessed by the Pantheon, to experience their attentions first hand.

For an instant he exulted, his soul bursting with energy but then he felt the tide increase. The flow of power became a mighty river, a torrent of mindless hate that burned through his sanity. Kasarox saw his intellect dissolving under the strain, his thoughts were falling apart and his reason was drowning in raw anger. He tried to hold onto a single thought, to cling onto his identity but it was crumbling to pieces. His strategies and tactics were subsumed, his doubts and misgivings burned to ash and all he knew was the beating red heart of raw violence and hate. From afar he heard Raruma cry, "It's too much!" but the words had lost all meaning. All that remained in Kasarox's soul was a frothing berserker rage, an irresistible urge to rend and slay that would not be denied. The minds of the Word Bearers were gone and in their place were a gaggle of rabid madmen. The Red Angel looked down upon its works and chuckled, "If you play with fire you get shall get burned, little mortals."

The Word Bearers could give no answer save a feral shriek of rage and the Red Angel lifted its head to sniff the air. The goat's lips drew back and it uttered, "I smell battle above, the blood flows and it calls to me. Come, my minions, the horns of battle sound and we shall answer. Blood for the blood god, skulls for the skull throne!"

With that the Bloodthirster led the frenzied Chaos Marines out from the cavern, following the sounds of war. They would find this battle and slaughter all who stood against them and there was absolutely nothing on this planet that could stop them.


	28. Chapter 28

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 28**

Upon the bridge there was death, it washed over the frenzied melee in a great wave of oblivion. Screaming multitudes of insane maniacs were everywhere, biting and clawing with their bare hands. Their eyes wept bloody tears and an accursed fire arose from their flesh. With them came the thrice-damned Word Bearers, who bellowed furiously as they raced into combat. Set against these unholy fiends were a handful of defenders, they were fighting with equal fury but they were ludicrously outnumbered and had no prospect of victory.

In the heart of the melee Toran swung the Sword of Thiel at a Chaos Marine who was covered in twisted runes. The pair of them were locked in a savage brawl, all thought of grace and skill forgotten as they wrestled back and forth. Toran felt weighty blows hammering into him but he rose above the pain and lashed back with equal brutality. Toran carried the deadlier weapon but the foe was too close to bring the long blade into play. He grimaced as a punch hammered into his side but he responded by slamming his helm forward, right into the foe's faceplate. The corrupt helm snapped backwards and Toran formed his hand into a claw and swept it across the exposed throat, tearing out the larynx. Gore stained his gauntlet but his enemy collapsed frothing blood and Toran had a moment of breathing room.

Everywhere the Storm Heralds were fighting tooth and nail to hold back the tide. Gone was their orderly line, now there was only the fury of the melee. Enemies poured on in a torrent, putting a Tyranid horde to shame with their wanton frenzy. In return Assault marines slaughtered droves with their chainswords but the screaming madmen cared not. Tactical Marines fought with short blades, their bolters were dry and they were reduced to fighting hand to hand. Devastators clubbed foes down as best they could but their Heavy Weapons were an encumbrance and their losses were mounting. Only the covering fire of the tanks behind them was thinning the horde's numbers enough to keep the Storm Heralds alive but their reserves were dwindling fast, this battle couldn't last much longer.

Toran flinched as Storm Talons cartwheeled out of the sky, engines blazing and their fuselages crawling with twisted Warp Talons. They hit the river, causing geysers of boiling water and Toran knew there would be no aid from above, no resupply runs. All they had was the ammo in their bolters and the tank's reserves and he knew the Storm Herald's resistance could be measured in minutes. Toran gritted his teeth in denial and threw himself back into the fray, carving a path through the teeming enemies. It didn't matter which way he moved, enemies were everywhere.

As he fought he spied Jediah grappling with a Chaos Marine, who had long black blades for hands. The fiend roared as he swung for the head but Jediah ducked and stabbed downwards, penetrating his enemy's knee joint. The Chaos Marine toppled with a cry of frustration but before he could adjust Jediah pounced and stabbed his Fractal-edged short sword into the breastplate, tearing out his hearts.

Elsewhere Persion was being choked to death by a Traitor with tentacles for arms. The appendage wrapped around his throat but Persion grasped the tentacle with his augmetic hand and squeezed. Blubbery flesh burst under the strain and black blood flowed between metal fingers as Persion increased the pressure inexorably and then the limb ripped clean off. The Traitor roared with anger but Persion swept his Friction axe about and disembowelled the Word Bearer with a single strike. Then Toran saw Arvael being inundated with frenzied madmen, the sheer mass of them bowling him over. Toran thought for a second he had seen the Librarian's end but then a massive Telekinetic shockwave blasted outwards from the spot, throwing deranged maniacs in all directions. Arvael rose to his feet, eyes shimmering with psychic power as his leapt back into the fray.

The melee was a vicious and bloody as any Toran had ever known and he redoubled his efforts, slaying all within reach. In moments he found the forms of Memnos and Novak, battling back to back against overwhelming odds. The Apothecary's chainsword was broken, its mechanism smoking but he used it as a club to beat down shrieking fanatics with his raw strength. Novak on the other hand was duelling a Traitor with a curved sabre, that glowed with infernal runes. The Champion swung his sword with deadly speed while simultaneously blocking a strike with his combat shield but the foe was a master swordsman and countered every thrust.

Toran forged forward in an attempt to intervene, hacking down any who stood in his way but he was too slow. Even as he watched the Traitor struck, swinging his blade with unearthly strength. Novak got the shield up in time but the infernal blade sundered the protective energy field and cleaved the shield in twain. Toran reacted without conscious thought, grabbing his spare combat knife from his belt and throwing it at his Champion shouting, "Catch!"

Instantly Novak's hand flashed up, grabbing the knife from mid-air and twisting it to stab right into the Traitor's eye lens. The Word Bearer collapsed and Toran leapt over the corpse, joining the pair of Storm Heralds to form a tight ring of defence. They fended off wave after wave of oncoming foes, hacking and stabbing with all their strength but Novak still yelled, "We're being overwhelmed!"

Toran thrust his sword through the heart of a screeching woman as he bellowed over the din, "Stand your ground Brothers, every minute we fight on is another victory. Show them your fury!"

From the other side Memnos smashed in a man's skull as he shouted, "The tanks are almost out of ammo!"

Yet Toran cried to all who could hear him, "Not one step back, we hold the line and none shall pass!"

With furious zeal the Storm Heralds redoubled their efforts, every last one determined to die fighting. All knew this was their last stand but their resolution was unbreakable and they swore to take as many of the foes with them as possible. Their courage and fortitude was the stuff of legends but then the sound they had all dreaded came forth: the tanks finally going silent, they were out of ammo.

A single moment of silence bloomed and then from the horde arose a bestial cry of rage. It was not a teeming multitude but only one voice, yet it was terrifying in its inhumanity. Toran's head snapped around and he spied a Daemon engine closing. It ran on all fours like some living beast and it was covered in thick armour laid over red muscles. Black flames spilled from its mouth and its eyes glowed infernally. It was a Maulerfiend and it was coming right at them. Toran twisted to intercept but he was too slow and the bulk of the beast smashed into him, bowling him over and cracking his breastplate. He hit the ground hard and rolled over, coming back up only to see the Maulerfiend fall upon a trio of Storm Heralds and tear them limb from limb. Toran took a single step forward but then the tide of frothing madmen rolled over him and he was forced to defend himself once more.

As he fought Toran saw the Maulerfiend snap up another Tactical Marine, Brother Vora, in its jaws and snap him in two. The Captain snarled angrily and tried to fight his way nearer but he was drowning in foes and could not move. But then another force intervened. From nowhere came the awe-inspiring bulk of Chaplain Furion, leading the Terminators into the fray. The giant Space Marine ran at full pace, barrelling aside all opposition with his mass as he roared, "No mercy, no respite, no fear!"

The Maulerfiend snarled in recognition of the threat and crushed a score of madmen under its claws as it leapt at them. Its eyes blazed with terrifying intelligence but Furion lifted the sacred Crozius Storm-heart before him and yelled, "Fear the Light of the Emperor!" Instantly a blaze of energy spilled out of the weapon, a surge of electromagnetic energies that crackled over everything nearby. This was the Crozius' stutter-field but set to a much higher frequency, an electromagnetic wave that disrupted Machine-Spirits like a Haywire grenade. Even a Daemon engine required some working parts and the Maulerfiend went into spasms as the effect washed over it, halting it in its tracks.

Instantly Sergeant Orath stepped up and swung his Thunder Hammer, smiting its skull as he roared his contempt. The Maulerfiend's body froze as its head imploded and it was still for a long moment. Then the burning body exploded, blasting shrapnel and black flames in all directions.

Toran felt himself being picked up by the blastwave before being slammed back down onto the bridge so hard his bones rattled. Every inch of him ached but worse than that was the knowledge that the blast had just torn out the heart of the Storm Herald's resistance. Their defence was shattered and they were vulnerable, the horde would wash over them with ease now.

Toran gritted his teeth and forced himself to rise, he knew it was futile but he was determined to die on his feet, no other death would suit an Astartes. The ruined carcass of the Maulerfiend was still smoking, its accursed black flames clearing a tiny island in the battle but only for a moment. Beyond the flames the teeming mass of frenzied people was pushing forward once more, uncaring of the pain and mutilation that the fires were inflicting. They threw themselves upon the flames, smothering them with their bodies as the rest of the mindless foes trampled them to death.

Despite the ferocious fighting, despite all the death and destruction the Storm Heralds had unleashed the horde had not been reduced by even the slightest degree. The enemy was beyond counting and the Storm Heralds were out of ammo. This battle was over: the Storm Heralds had lost. Yet Toran refused to despair, he was a Space Marine and in the name of his Chapter and Him on Terra he would fight to the bitter end. Toran gripped his sword in both hands and drew in a breath, preparing to shout one last epithet but at the last instant he was interrupted. Suddenly the voice of Arvael arose, cutting through the din of battle as he cried, "The North! Look to the north!" Toran turned a fraction to glance up the river but what he beheld took his breath away.

Charging down the length of the mighty river was a line of shining steel and black vehicles. There were two-score of them, each one floating above the water on a shimmering grav-field. They were boxy and square vehicles, with rotating turrets and hull-mounted weapons. Yet despite their squat appearance they moved like Land-Speeders, driven forward by roaring turbines to create a wall of shining plasteel. It was an unbelievable sight, a charge as glorious as it was impossible. Toran would not have believed it had he not seen it with his own eyes, he would have sworn blind it couldn't happen. Elation and disbelief warred within him, his mind struggling to grasp the reality that his eyes presented to him. Toran's jaw fell and he gasped, "The Ashen Knights… I don't believe it, the Ashen Knights have come!"

Then Furion's voice arose, crying aloud for all to hear, "Behold, none who fight for the Imperium do so in vain! The Emperor sees our valour and He sends reinforcements!"

The Storm Heralds cheered as the Repulsor tanks swung towards the Eastern bank, driving a wall of water before them. Their turrets thundered and hull-mounted weapons roared as the tanks hurtled towards the packed masses of foes. With fire and fury they carved a great wedge out of the wall of enemies and into that gap they charged without hesitation, carrying three hundred Primaris Marines into the centre of the horde. The heaving mass quailed and shivered and for the first time the torrent of foes paused, cut off from advancing onto the bridge.

Toran realised that the balance of the entire battle had shifted and he gripped his sword tighter as he cried, "Brothers this is our chance, this is our hour! Ready your blades and follow me, for Terra and the Living Primarch… Charge!"


	29. Chapter 29

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 29**

The Repulsor's anti-gravs howled with barely contained power and its turbines roared as they pushed it forwards at an incredible pace. It was not alone either, forty more of its kind charged with it, a line of shining steel and black hurtling just over the river. In their holds awaited three hundred Ashen Knights, a force that could break whole worlds.

Ulysses could see it all from where he stood, head and shoulders sticking out of a tank's turret. His hands were upon the pintle mounted ironhail stubber and his eagerness to engage made him clench the handles hard. He could see the river stretching out before him, a long line of shimmering wetness, the reflected light from above making it resemble a stream of blood. Ulysses was clad in his armour but his neural link told him that his faceplate was being sprayed with water, the anti-gravs of the tank throwing up clouds of moisture as it charged at top speed.

The Ashen Knights had mounted their tanks and set forth seeking battle. Rather than try to fight their way through the city they had pulled north and then swept back down along the course of the river. No other Imperial vehicle could have attempted such a feat; no armoured transport save the Repulsor could travel on shimmering anti-gravs. They had roared past mountains of rubble and under the noses of screeching Chaos Raptors with ease, travelling at a speed most vehicles would require a ferrocrete road to match. It made no difference to the Repulsors, stone, grass or water, it was all the same to them.

Ulysses felt the vibrations of the tank ringing through him, making his teeth rattle but that was not why he grinned. Ahead the distant form of the bridge was coming into view, covered in a furious battle that still raged. Ulysses glimpsed flashes of blue power armour battling impossible odds as they tried to hold back an endless tide of screaming madmen. The horde was as vast and endless as any he had ever seen, the insanity of Chaos waxing strong this day. Ulysses had no idea how the outnumbered Storm Heralds had managed to hold against such numbers but it was clear that they could not endure much longer. This battle could only end in defeat, yet that was an outcome the Ashen knights would not accept, not while the Master of Sanctity still drew breath.

Ulysses opened his vox and shouted, "Lord-Marshall, the target is in sight but we must make haste, the battle turns against the Imperium!"

Over the vox Achilles voice responded, "All units prepare for Tsunami manoeuvre. Ulysses, take point and create a beachhead!"

Obeying the order the Repulsors swung east, bringing their weapons to point at the embankment. The shore was packed with enemies, a solid mass of howling people, all infected with the cursed flames of Chaos. They clawed and fought each other in their desperation to reach the battle on the bridge, incapable of any thought save shedding blood and ending lives. Ulysses' hatred and contempt grew at the sight and he gripped the stubber tightly but he held his fire, they had another weapon to use first.

As the Repulsors closed those in the centre of the line dropped back, bending the line into a 'U-shape'. Repulsors were not like the dainty machines of the Eldar, they did not gracefully skim over the ground without disturbing a blade of grass, instead they hammered the floor with pounding gravitic force, crushing anything beneath them with inexorable might. When travelling over water the effect was to create a bow-wave, a surge of displaced liquid that barrelled ahead of them. When combined and amplified forty-fold this produced a massive wave of water that could be directed and used as a weapon.

Ulysses saw the river surging, a massive wave rising twenty foot high before the Ashen Knights. The tanks drove the wave towards the embankment, then at the last second the drivers cut their turbines and reduced speed, but the wave travelled on. It surged over the walls of the embankment and flooded amongst the packed masses of people. Screaming berserkers were overwhelmed by the instant flood, carried away by the surging waves to be smashed into nearby buildings with bone-shattering force. Many more were trapped under the weight of their kin, pinned to the ground and left to drown in the flooded streets. Before the Ashen Knights had even fired a single shot they had killed hundreds of foes and swept a portion of the bank clear. Only the Chaos Marines stood unaffected, their ceramite armour suddenly standing out in the thrashing, drowning crowd. Ulysses snarled in sacred revulsion and swung his stubber around crying, "Fire!"

Instantly every Repulsor let fly, onslaught Gatling cannons and hull-mounted Lascanons blazing with ear-splitting fury. They bracketed the Word Bearers with ruthless overkill, cutting them apart with devastating power and sparing none. Ulysses gripped the triggers of his stubber and felt its juddering reverberations shaking his whole body. He gritted his teeth and held on, directing the stream of traces towards a lone Word Bearer. Rounds pinged off the thick Ceramite armour but what the Ironhail lacked in stopping power it more than made up for in sheer weight of fire and he kept the weapon firing until the Chaos Marine collapsed, blood pouring from every joint.

Ulysses saw the stone embankment whip underneath him but the Repulsor barely rocked, its grav-fields unperturbed. The tanks rode into the dazed horde but their window of opportunity was slight. From all directions more madmen poured forth, dashing around the buildings at a frantic pace. They ran into the dissipating flood waters and trampled their downed fellows, unable to comprehend their suffering any more.

Ulysses saw the Repulsors greet them with waves of fire, turret weapons scything down droves and auto-grenade launchers firing explosives on arcs over their heads. Bodies exploded in the carnage, torn apart by the furious barrage and falling in sprays of blood. Yet it was barely slowing the horde down for they came on regardless, running into the teeth of overwhelming firepower with the reckless courage of the insane. Ulysses saw hundreds more foes falling but the tank's fire was too dispersed, too widely spread to halt the tide of enemies, they were going to close into combat no matter what. The Chaplain realised what must be done and he cried, "Intercessors, dismount!"

Instantly side doors slammed down and Primaris Marines poured out, leaping into the flood waters which were barely ankle deep now. Ulysses joined them, leaping out of his turret and splashing down onto the ground. The horde was barely a few metres away but he was not afraid, the God-Emperor was with him and he knew exactly what to do. Ulysses raised his Crozius high and cried, "Form up into two lines, staggered formation!"

Without question a hundred and fifty Intercessors formed up, back rank standing in a formal line with the Repulsors firing over their heads, while the front rank knelt. The enemy was so close they could feel their breath and in a few seconds combat must surely be joined but Ulysses did not baulk. He waited for a single second, until the line was perfect and then he cried, "Back rank, take aim… Volley fire!"

Bolt-rifles thundered as they discharged simultaneously, a scythe of destruction that decimated the screaming multitudes, harvesting them like ripened crops. Scores of rabid maniacs fell and the horde itself was blown back by the fury of the barrage. In that moment of vulnerability Ulysses cried, "Advance!" and the rearmost Intercessors responded by taking three steps forward, passing their kneeling comrades and then dropping to one knee before them as they reloaded. By now the horde had recovered, surging forward once more but Ulysses lifted his Crozius again and the new rear line rose up, pointing weapons forward and waiting for the order.

"Take aim… Fire!" Ulysses roared and the horde was blown back, bodies dropping like flies as he yelled, "Advance!" Again the Intercessors ploughed forwards, before dropping to one knee as the new rear line stood up. Ulysses marched with them, carving a path into the numberless horde as he cried over and over, "Take aim, fire… Advance! Take aim, fire… Advance!" Take aim, fire… Advance!"

Each time the rear line would move a handful of paces forward, pushing the horde back with sheer weight of firepower. Nothing could stand before them, the Primaris' progress proving utterly unstoppable and their slaughter was wondrous to behold. In seconds they had cleared a wide circle around the tanks, a tiny spot of safety but in doing so they had become spread out, thinning their firepower. Ulysses saw the horde rallying, the teeming masses bunching up for one almighty charge to break the line of ceramite. He gripped his Crozius tightly and prepared to lead his Marines into the fray but a moment before the horde could reach them a new torrent of firepower flew over the Ashen Knight's heads.

Ulysses spared a half-second to look behind and he saw a wall of shining steel closing, the towering might of the Aggressors. In the moments of respite the Intercessors had bought, the heavy weapon specialists had dismounted, a slow and laborious processed which was why they favoured marching into combat. Yet now they were free and two-score of them stood ready, Fragstorm grenade launchers primed and Boltstorm gauntlets raised.

The Aggressors marched methodically forwards, speaking their fury as they swept their arms left and right. A veritable blitzkrieg of rounds hurtled over Ulysses' head and it decimated the packed ranks of the foe, slaughtering them in droves. More and more madmen poured out of avenues and roadways and it seemed their numbers would never end. Yet the Aggressors were designed for exactly this kind of warfare and their sheer weight of firepower annihilated everything they targeted. Each one of them was unleashing a squad's worth of firepower and they marched forward with relentless determination, slaying everything within sight. The seething masses of foes were laid to waste by the Aggressors, who pressed on unleashing hell, which left only the Chaos Marines to be dealt with. Then came the glorious sight of Lord-Marshall Achilles, charging forward with Despolier held high as he cried, "Reivers with me, Inceptors, hit and run don't get bogged down. Hellblasters; focus your firepower, leave none alive! Everyone else, charge!"

As one the Ashen Knights hurled themselves at the Word Bearers, smiting them down with unmatchable fury. Ulysses roared his anger as he barrelled towards the nearest Traitor, his Crozius swinging down to shatter a mutated helm. The fighting became close as the two sides tore at each other and Ulysses' world shrank to a claustrophobic nightmare of hacking and stabbing ceramite forms. Plasma flashes seared onto his retina as Traitors were reduced to slag and the roar of jump packs rang down from above as Inceptors flew overhead, raining down assault bolter fire. The melee was crushing and bloody, both sides unleashing their fury and zeal but Ulysses exulted in the raw heat of combat. His hearts thundered in his chest, his arms burned with exertion and his gene-seed thrummed with potential as he smote down his foes. This was what he had been forged for, the sole purpose of his being, here was the truest expression of his devotion and his soul sang with the rush of battle.

Somehow he found himself shoulder to shoulder with Achilles and he shouted, "They are no match for us!"

Achilles cried back, "The Storm Heralds are advancing, they seek to link up. Together victory shall be ours!"

Ulysses dared to think for a moment that the tide had turned, that the day was theirs, but then a shadow fell over the crowded streets. The whole battle paused as every head lifted in terror and horror, seeing a terrible Red Angel descending from on high. It was a monstrous beast, with a goat's head and terrible weapons in its hands. The Mark of Khorne blazed on its chest and from its back spread wings of fire. The mere sight of it sparked wonder and horror in equal measure and Ulysses felt gore rise in his throat as the rancid stench of a billion murders penetrated his helm's grill.

Achilles gasped in revulsion and shouted, "Bloodthirster!"

Ulysses saw the Daemon diving right towards them but he knew no fear, he lifted his Crozius high and shouted, "To me Ashen Knights, our sternest challenge is at hand. Steel your hearts Brethren, glory or death awaits!"

Then the Red Angel fell upon them and the true battle was joined.


	30. Chapter 30

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 30**

The noise was incredible, the howling din of battle arising from all around. Cries of triumph and defeat were interspersed with the roaring of chainswords and the terrible sound of breaking meat and bone. Men screamed with fury and gnashed their teeth as deeper Transhuman voices cried aloud catechisms martial and praises to the Emperor. Flashes of light erupted as weapons discharged and blood sprayed high in response. This was the searing core of battle, the mad frenzy of the melee and the wild abandon of combat. It was horrifying and it was exhilarating, the stuff of legends to those who were not there and the font of nightmares to those who were.

Toran knew this state of being well and he embraced it. Everything about him was engineered for exactly this carnage and ferocity, from his armaments and armour to his physique and the hypno-indoctrination that had sculpted his mind. Space Marines were made for battle, it was their reason for being and he felt as confident here as a mortal would in his own home.

The Captain was leading his Company up the bridge, hacking a path through the teeming enemies. The Storm Heralds were bereft of ammo but that hardly mattered here, the fighting was so close and desperate that there was no room for ranged weapons anyway. There was only the packed mass of madmen and Chaos Marines, hurling themselves forward in a desperate attempt to stop the Space Marine's advance. The battle was still ferocious and yet the attack of the Ashen Knights had drawn away the bulk of the frothing maniacs, so now they lacked the weight of numbers to stop the Storm Heralds. For the first time the Astartes could make progress, though every inch had to be carved out of the jostling hordes surrounding them.

Toran gripped his relic sword tightly in both hands and cut out the heart of a man in worker's overalls. The mortal collapsed but he was instantly replaced with an elderly cleric in tattered scholar's robes, Toran tore out his guts then hacked down a young woman with braided hair then a young boy, no more than ten years old. Toran felt no remorse or pity at these deeds, he may fight to protect the innocent but these people were infected with the filth of the Warp. Every soul present was already beyond redemption and death was the only mercy he had to offer. The only emotion in his hearts this day was his overwhelming abhorrence and searing contempt. Chaos was responsible for these people's corruption; surely it deserved only his hatred.

Step by step Toran waded through the masses of people, leaving a trail of slaughter in his wake. At his side the warriors of the Third matched his pace, each and every one cutting down foes with chilling ruthlessness. To his left the Assault Marines were massacring any who came at them with roaring Chainswords. The revving blades eviscerated anything they touched and the blue-ceramite was turning gore red from the spraying of blood. Sergeant Lorath was at the very front, his twin lightning claws blazing with power as he executed droves of mortals. None could escape his wrath, his zeal was inspiring and as he killed he cried out, "Three-hundred and seven, three-hundred and eight, three-hundred and nine!"

From Toran's right a cry arose, "You're not even close to my tally!" It was Sergeant Orath, leading the Terminators right into the face of the enemy. They marched into the teeming foes like a dozer blade shifting rubble, not fast but utterly relentless and unstoppable. Lightning claws and Thunder hammers rose and fell with metronomic precision, obliterating anything they reached. Enemies fell to their weapons in scores and any who were not instantly killed were crushed under their tremendous weight. Toran knew well that fighting in Terminator plate was a matter of momentum and inertia, once in motion there was practically nothing that could stop Tactical Dreadnought plate.

At their head Sergeant Orath marched, his weapons caked in gore. His Hammer struck a man and the energy discharge blew him into a stinking cloud of viscera, then his storm shield slammed forwards and bowled over another man. Orath didn't pause but merely stepped on the man, crushing the ribcage with his titanic weight as he strode on. His hammer rose and fell over and over, killing and destroying, nothing could stand against him and he cried, "By the Throne, this is glorious!"

Suddenly Toran was confronted by a Word Bearer who was covered in runic script. His reaction speed was blurring as launched a sweep that tore off the head and he shouted, "Faster Brothers, every second counts. We must link up with the Ashen Knights!"

From afar Furion's voice cried out, "On heroes of the Imperium, this day shall live forever in the Chapter's annals. The Emperor shall bestow eternal glory to the first Marine who sets foot upon the eastern shore!"

The Storm Heralds thundered with a cry of zeal, the promise of glory stoking their fervour. The end of the bridge was in sight and every Storm Herald redoubled their efforts to reach it, yearning to break through and snatch victory. Yet before the first of them could step onto the ground there was a deep Transhuman roar and a knot of Word Bearers came charging right towards them. These ones were different, clad in more ornate armour and unlike the ones already seen these were covered in licking flames. Toran didn't have time to react, the Word Bearers moved with staggering speed, their fury seeing them mow down their own followers in their frantic need to engage.

The Chaos Marine piled into the fray, engaging the Storm Heralds head on and meeting them blade to blade with frenzied assaults. Toran saw a massive Chaos Terminator, with long tusks protruding from his helm, charge straight into Orath. The Sergeant raised his Storm Shield but the Traitor slammed into him with all the power of a freight train. Orath bellowed in denial and kept his shield up but he was driven backwards by the force of the oncoming juggernaut, ferrocrete chips flying from the ground where his boots carved long furrows into the roadway.

Elsewhere Lorath was confronted by a pair of whirling dervishes, two Chaos Marines who leapt at him in a frenzy of hacking and stabbing blades. Lorath met them with his lightning claws raised, carving their armour to shreds even as his own was rent apart. Meanwhile a Chaos Marine with Daemonic claws pounced upon Arvael; the Telekine hasty threw up a Kine shield but the possessed warrior smashed through it with ease. The Librarian barely twisted out of the way of a disembowelling stroke and swung his Morningstar but the Force weapon dinged off a pauldron with no effect at all. Desperately Arvael resorted to a wrestler's move, grappling with his enemy as fists and knees flew.

This had taken barely a few seconds to occur and Toran was moving to intervene but then he was confronted by a foe of his own. He saw a Traitor charging at him, one with gore-red armour lined with silver and a long-top knot protruding from his bare head. His face was surprisingly mundane for a Traitor, lacking any stigmata or mutations but the feral anger in his visage was terrifying. His eyes were blood red and his open mouth frothed with inarticulate rage as licking flames arose from his body. He looked completely mad, lost in a wild bloodlust and he dove upon Toran swinging a power fist that blazed with energies.

Toran hastily threw himself backwards, seeing the fist swing past his helm, so close that lightning sparks jumping the minuscule distance. Toran countered with a thrust of his sword but the Traitor was shockingly fast and the tip of his blade merely scored a deep groove over the pauldron. Again the flaring fist came at him, faster than Toran would have believed possible for such an unwieldy weapon and this time the knuckles clipped his chest. Toran felt his Iron Halo flare as it tried to counter the blazing energies but it was only partially successful. The brute force of the blast sent him flying backwards, his golden ranks chains shattered into a billion pieces. Toran hit the ground but immediately rolled free, narrowly avoiding a follow-up blow that smashed a great crater into the ground. He slammed a hand into the ground and rose up to his feet, bringing the Sword of Thiel up between them.

The Traitor howled like a wild animal and charged forward but Toran backpedalled, doing his best to keep the range open. He parried and blocked over and over, the weapons' energy fields blazing as they struggled for supremacy. Toran had fought countless foes, many of whom were his superior but this foe was entirely unique. He was strong and fast, ferociously powerful and vicious in his style. Even without his Daemonic rage he would have been a brutal combatant, sadistic, violent and willing to take the tiniest advantage and exploit it to the full.

Toran was forced to retreat as his blade flashed and weaved a deadly dance before him. Then he felt the merest breath of wind tug at his cloak and he realised that he was backed right up to the bridge's edge. Toran paused, some instinct telling him to wait as the Chaos Marine charged at him, swinging the fist in an overhead strike. Toran waited until the last possible instant and then threw himself to the side. The fist missed him by the merest whisker and instead slammed into the ferrocrete barricade, blowing a huge crater but leaving the Heretic over-extended and off balance.

Instantly Toran's blade blurred as he swung his sword down, aiming for the limb. The blade struck true and in one swift movement it severed the whole arm at the elbow. Toran saw the fist fall and he cried, "Death to foul minions of Chaos!"

But the Traitor only screamed, "Raaaaagh!" as he threw himself at the Captain, his remaining arm reaching out to grab at the throat.

Toran sneered in contempt and swayed to the side, taking the enemy's momentum and swinging about to hurl him bodily over the parapet. The Traitor went flying over the rail, plummeting towards the icy waters far below, trailing blood from the stump of his arm and still howling. He hit the river in a tremendous splash of water and sank beneath the waves, disappearing into the murky depths and leaving not a trace that he was ever there.

Toran breathed in a ragged breath, his Transhuman organs burning as they fought to restore his equilibrium. Toran felt utterly worn out, his endurance pressed hard but he knew the war was far from over. He drew himself up and saw the battle winding down, the Storm Herald's discipline bringing low the gaggles of Word Bearers and the horde at last thinning out. At one end of the bridge Lorath was standing with one foot on the embankment, his chest heaved with exertion and his armour was ragged.

Yet he lifted his dripping lightning claws and proclaimed, "I made it, I was first to the eastern bank! The glory is mine!"

From behind came a heavy thud and Orath stomped past, Thunder hammer crackling with discharged energy as he growled, "Don't go on about it."

Toran shook his head and made to order them on but suddenly the whole scene was cast into a fearful and vile red light. Toran spun about and gasped as he saw a baleful red star plummeting to the ground, trailing fire in its wake. It was foul and revolting to look upon, the merest glimpse stirring a visceral hatred and revulsion. Toran's hearts thundered in response and he cried, "Daemon!"

"Not just any Daemon," arose the voice of Arvael, the Librarian looking as bloodied as any of them, "A Bloodthirster of Khorne."

That proclamation caused sharp intakes of breath, such beings were the bane of whole worlds, each a slaughterers of billions. The dark legends of the Imperium spoke in terror of such beings, and every account ended in slaughter on a galactic scale. Arvael lifted his hand to point as he yelled, "It's headed for the Ashen Knights, they will be massacred!"

Toran gripped his sword tighter and forced his weary arms to raise it one more time as he declared, "Never! The Ashen Knights came in our hour of need and we will not abandon them now. Follow me Brothers and prepare for the greatest fight of your lives, there's a Daemon out there that needs killing!"


	31. Chapter 31

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 31**

The light was torpid and red, burningly intense, searing eyes and making the skin writhe. Even through stout ceramite it felt scalding, penetrating crude matter with unnatural ease. The light befouled everything it touched, a foul and vile stain upon the world. Besides that light there was an unbearable stench, the reek of spilt blood and viscera that forced its way up the nose and clawed at the back of the throat. Meanwhile the air throbbed with a booming heartbeat, fast and frantic, like the pulse of desperation itself. This was the effect of the Bloodthirster's mere presence yet it was as nothing compared to its deeds.

By the banks of the river the Red Angel was wrecking carnage, its cursed weapons leaving a trail of slaughter. Its lash sliced Primaris Marines apart with every twitch and its flaming axe sundered bodies, no defence could stand against it and nothing could stop it. Brazenly the Red Angel marched into the Ashen Knight's formation, weapons wrecking carnage as it's goat head laughed.

Ulysses could see it all from where he lay, sprawled upon the ground. He had been thrown aside by the Daemon's landing, the explosion of wind from the impact hurling warriors away effortlessly. His whole body ached and his head was swimming but he suppressed it with an effort of will. Woozily he lifted his head and saw his Brethren falling to the Bloodthirster, their weapons making no impression on its form. He watched a line of Intercessors blazing away, sending torrents of bolts flying up at the foul monster. The shots were perfect yet not a single round touched its skin. The air shimmered around it like a heat haze and as the Chaplain watched the rounds melted in mid-air. In return the Red Angel swept its lash about at waist height and neatly bisected Ashen Knights, a dozen proud Primaris Marines annihilated in seconds. The Deamon laughed aloud and cried, "Yes, more! Lay your offerings before the Skull Throne!"

Ulysses saw the slaughter intensify and he gritted his teeth. Brothers were dying and he was lying here in the dust. He forced his feet to work and rose onto wobbly legs, gripping his Crozius in shaking hands. He saw Lord-Marshall Achilles directing the fire, trying to end the Bloodthirster's rampage but to no avail. Ulysses knew what was wrong and coughed, "No… ranged fire can't stop it… we must fight it the old way."

Despite the din Achilles heard him and shouted, "We need an opening. Hellblasters, aim for the head, supercharge your guns!" There was a second's pause and then scores of blazing plasma bolts spat from every gun barrel. It was a desperate move and the guns screamed with discharging steam but the hail of energy hit the Daemon dead on and for the first time the Red Angel flinched. Seizing the moment the Ashen Knight's Librarians struck, three of them spilling blasts of lightning from their hands. Their blows crawled over the Daemon's flesh, charred its skin to ashes. Hope surged in Ulysses' hearts but the Red Angel screamed, "Khorne despises witches!" Then it swung the axe in a fiery sweep and in one blow reduced the Psykers to sprays of gore.

Hatred filled Ulysses's mind and he drew upon reserves of strength he did not know he had as he cried, "Charge!" Instantly the Ashen Knights responded, hurling themselves at the Daemon with short gladius blades drawn. The Red Angel was surrounded by a scrum of hacking and stabbing Marines, hundreds of them all striking together yet the effect was minimal, the mundane weapons having little effect and any wounds sealing again in moments. Only Achilles' blade seemed able to land lasting blows but he was one Marine all alone. The Daemon laughed as it shrugged off the attackers and it called, "Your anger pleases the Blood God!"

"Heed not its lies, your rage is a gift from the God-Emperor!" Ulysses bellowed as he swung his Crozius at the knee joint. It was a good strike and yet the Daemon jerked its reversed goat's legs and the weapon bounced off a brazen plate of armour. Ulysses swung again with a snarl of righteous anger but the Red Angel kicked him first and sent him flying backwards, his ceramite breastplate dented inwards and the bone adornments shattered.

Ulysses staggered away, struggling to stand as his anger burned hotter than ever. He was aghast at the destruction unleashed, scores of Ashen Knights were dead and more fell with every second. They were fighting for all they were worth and yet they were barely slowing it down. Defiance surged in Ulysses' hearts and he swore to see this foe ended but the Red Angel cried, "You have the gift of fury and you have tasted the power of rage. You would make a mighty Champion of Khorne!"

Ulysses rejected its lies and as more Primaris died he proclaimed, "Fight on Brethren, hold nothing back! We are steel, we are doom..."

Then from afar a new voice cried, "And we shall know no fear!"

Ulysses turned in shock at the cry and beheld a miracle. Charging into the fray came a throng of blue-clad Astartes, the Storm Heralds, running straight at the Daemon with weapons blazing. There was the battered Captain with a shining sword, there was the tall Chaplain with a relic Crozius, there was a Librarian swinging a Morning-star and there was the Champion Novak, wielding two blades.

The Storm Heralds wasted not a moment before diving in, axes and swords flashing. Their courage was dauntless, their skill dazzling and their assortment of weapons proving far more effective than the short blades of the Ashen Knights. The Daemon snarled its frustration as cuts opened up over its flesh, the number of wounds growing faster than it could heal them. Even as Ulysses watched an Assault Marine Sergeant landed on its back and drove twin lightning claws into its spine. Simultaneously a Terminator Sergeant swung a Thunder Hammer at its legs and blew away a chunk of flesh.

The Red Angel screamed in denial as it was hacked apart piece by piece, but it was far from defeated. The Daemon summoned its power and then blew its fiery wings outwards, scattering its attackers. Ulysses felt himself being forced to step back as an unnatural wind battered his form, blowing Astartes and Primaris away. The Red Angel roared sadistically and then its lash flicked out: one, two three times and every blow obliterated a dozen loyal sons of the Imperium. Ashen Knights and Storm Heralds dropped like flies and the Daemon screamed its triumph as it lifted its flaming axe high to strike once more.

Its target was another Terminator, who tried to block with twin-lightning claws, but the axe shattered them with ease and carried on. The unholy weapon met the thickest armour known to man and tore it like parchment, leaving the Terminator to fall part spilling entrails down his bisected front. Ulysses was stunned by the sight, nothing could bypass Terminator plate so easily, but then he saw the axe rise up again, preparing to strike Novak. Before he even knew it Ulysses was leaping into motion, headed towards the staggering Champion, throwing himself bodily into the way. He collided with Novak an instant before the axe struck and knocked him aside. The force of the impact moved them both slightly out of the way and Ulysses just missed the edge of the axe, merely being caught by its broad head.

Suddenly there was a flare of light, the conversion field of his Rosarius enveloping him in a protective embrace. Purest light met unholy fire and there was a burst of energy as the two forces warred, leaving Ulysses staggering in the corona of energy. For a second it held then the Rosarius' shell ruptured, cracking right down the middle as the sacred icon failed. But Ulysses did not die for a hand grabbed him by the pauldron and heaved him out of the blazing energies. It was Novak, Ulysses saw, pulling him to safety. Ulysses nodded in gratitude but then Novak's voice gasped, "Look out!"

Ulysses looked up and saw the flaming axe descending again, coming right at him. The sheer weight of it was unstoppable and the edge promised only death. There was no time to move, no chance to avoid its path, all they could do was watch in horror as the axe brought their doom. Ulysses committed his soul to the God-Emperor but then, inches from his skull, the axe stopped, hanging in mid-air. The Red Angel blinked in confusion, then it tried to pull back but its arm was locked in place, stuck like it was embedded in solid rock and the Daemon could not move. Ulysses was bewildered by the sight but then he spied the Storm Herald's Librarian. He was holding both fists up in the air and his psychic hood shimmered with power. His eyes were screwed up in agony and sweat cascaded down his brow as he gasped, "Hurry…"

The Daemon's roar of contempt would have made ears bleed but the Astartes were already in motion, instinctively breaking up to go left and right. Ulysses saw the forms of Captain Toran and Lord-Marshall Achilles running at the pinned Daemon's left side, swords held high. The two officers reached the Bloodthirster together and they stuck as one, two ancient relic weapons slicing into the back of the knee and severing tendons. Neverborn or not the Daemon needed legs to be able to stand and it collapsed under the blows, falling to one knee.

Then came Novak, racing at full pelt. His legs pounded the ground beneath him as he ran right at the Daemon, sword blazing with hexagrammatic runes and knife as sharp as razor's edge. It was as heroic a charge as Ulysses had ever seen and he watched in amazement as Novak bunched up and then leapt high, planting one boot on the Daemon's bent knee and using it as a springboard to launch himself right at its heart. Two blades struck the Mark of Khorne and plunged within, spilling flames from the grievous wound as a man would blood.

Everything paused as reality adjusted itself and then the Red Angel reared back with searing energy flowing from its pierced heart, throwing Novak away. The Daemon thrashed and wailed, clamping one hand to its chest as it flailed about in desperation. Yet nothing could prevent its form dissolving and strength fled from it as its anchor to reality was destroyed. The Bloodthirster collapsed to the ground, its form blurring as it tried to hold itself together and instantly Ulysses was in motion, running right at its fallen skull with his Crozius shining.

The Red Angel lifted its head and cried, "No, I will not be banished, I need new flesh! I can offer you power beyond measure if you let me in, the might of the Blood God could be yours!"

But Ulysses shut out its entreaties, his soul was beholden to only one being and he raised his Crozius high shouting, "Imperator Vult!"

With that the golden mace struck, smashing in the wretched goat skull and severing the Daemon's essence from the material world. There was a single moment of stillness and then the body of the Red Angel shattered into nothing but black smoke. A foul cloud of choking smog engulfed everybody present but its power was nothing and it could not prevent its dissolution. It began to drift apart, becoming nought but a smudge as a fading voice screamed, "Noooooo…"

Ulysses saw the cloud begin to waft away and staggered back. His body burned from his exertions and he ached everywhere, but he was buoyed up by the knowledge of what had been done this day. Chaos had been routed and the Daemon was banished. Everywhere he looked he saw piles of dead, in steel and black armour or blue-clad plate, scores upon scores of them but those that remained were victorious. Ulysses drew a breath into his burning lungs and proclaimed, "It is over."

Then there approached the Champion Novak, battered but hale. Ulysses bowed and said, "Storm Herald, it seems I was wrong about you. Your stubbornness and courage are an inspiration."

Novak bowed back and said, "You saved my life, your strength and zeal are wondrous to behold."

Then Ulysses wearily lifted his Crozius over his head and cried to one and all, "Let there be no doubt, when the heroes of the Imperium are united, nothing can withstand our wrath!"


	32. Chapter 32

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 32**

He was cold, that was the first thing he noticed, a clammy cold sensation burrowing down into the core of him. It was all-pervasive, tingling along his nerves with the aching bite of frost. Once there had been fire, he knew that, gipping his hearts and clawing at his mind but it was gone. All he could feel now was bitter ashes, cold, dead and weak. He didn't like the experience, he wanted the fire back, he wanted this cold sensation to go away.

His body was shivering, it shouldn't do that, he didn't know where the knowledge came from but it was there regardless. Thoughts came sluggishly, telling him that he should be bursting with power and strength, a towering colossus, gene-forged and driven by zeal. More information trickled in, he was a champion, a titan bestriding the galaxy, a Chaos Marine and his name was Kasarox. That revelation triggered a flood of memories, his induction to the Word Bearers, his implantation with the blessed gene-seed of Lorgar, centuries of service and rising the ranks. His elevation to leadership played out in his mind, followed by centuries of undermining by his lord and master: Abulaz.

That name lit a spark of anger, a flickering ember of resentment. Energy finally returned and gave him the strength to open his eyes. Kasarox blinked as he beheld a wall of muddy stone before him, grey at first but then blue, a vertical stretch of water hanging impossibly at an angle. It was a good few seconds before he understood that he was horizontal, laying upon a slight mound. He blinked again as his sight returned and he discovered that he was laid out upon a slope of mud, surrounded by water on all sides. Kasarox was lying face-down, head pressing into the wet mud as water lapped around his boots. Slowly he forced himself upright and then doubled over to vomit out dank river water, his multi-lung ejecting the fluid filling his chest. The organ had kept him alive, filtering out oxygen from the river water, though he was uncertain why this was necessary. Then Kasarox realised that his face was caked in wet mud and he lifted his hand to wipe it clean but strangely nothing happened.

For a heartbeat Kasarox stared stupidly at the stump of his own arm, trying to understand why he didn't have a hand then it came back to him. The Red Angel, the Ragefire and the overwhelming torrent of fury that had turned him into a mindless beast. His memories became vague and blurry after that, he remembered a battle upon a bridge, a duel with some wretched dandy in a red cloak, who bore a shiny sword and then being unceremoniously dumped in the river. A part of him swore eternal revenge upon that miserable cur but the larger part of his mind was rebuilding its strategies and he put that aside for later.

Kasarox took in his surroundings; he was sitting at the base of one of the bridge's towers, where centuries of accumulation had left a mound of mud. The wide tower rose sharply above him, smooth and unclimbable for a Marine with only one arm but the embankment was only a short distance away, easily reachable. More concerning was the fact that the Ragefire no longer burned within him, its fury stolen away. Kasarox knew enough about the Warp to infer that the source of its power must have been cut off, which could only mean that the Red Angel had been banished.

Kasarox could scarcely imagine any force that could banish an entity of the Sixth Host but the facts were undeniable. The Ragefire had been quenched and the city no longer rang with the screaming voices of the infected. Kasarox felt a sense of dread as he realised that whatever banished the Red Angel was still out there and he knew any loyalists left would certainly not be in a merciful mood. Kasarox determined that his only priority now was to escape and that meant there was only one option left open to him.

Silently he slipped into the river, ducking under the water. The current tugged at him but his weight kept his boots firmly upon the bottom as he made his way over to the eastern shore. Soon he found a blank wall of stone and he speared his remaining hand into the ferrocrete before hauling himself upwards. Even with one hand it was simplicity itself for a Chaos Marine to pull himself onto the shore and he crouched there, dripping water as he looked for threats. Kasarox found himself on a wide stone boulevard, some scholar's walk, where they could stroll idly by the river in peaceful times. The Chaos Marine wasted no time in contempt for such weakness, instead dashing across the way to a narrow alley. His bulk barely fitted down the confining passageway but he forced his way along, smashing in frosty windows of recaff houses and knocking down wicker chairs. With every step Kasarox felt his customary strength returning and he stretched his senses to maximum, listening for the thrum of power armour.

He should have been listening for smaller footsteps because unexpectedly a mortal leapt out from around a blind corner. Kasarox's remaining hand blurred as his fist snapped out and caught the mortal by the throat. He lifted the man off the ground and dragged him close hissing, "Silence!" The ragged man, elderly with thinning hair, merely thrashed in his grip and clawed at his arm with his fingernails as he spat, "Hysshhh!"

Kasarox pulled the man closer and examined him in minute detail. The mortal's frame was unimpressive and plump, lacking any Daemonic strength or otherworldly power. There was no holy fury, no gifts from the gods below and most tellingly no flames flickering about him, the power of the Warp was completely absent. Yet in his eyes there was only depthless insanity, revealing a hollowed out mind and a ravaged soul. Kasarox determined that the Daemon's fire was spent but the mortal's sanity was shattered, this man would never again read a book, eat a fine meal or fornicate with whores. It was hardly surprising, only a Space Marine had the willpower and the resolve to recover from such an ordeal, unlike Kasarox any mortal touch by the Ragefire was forever condemned to be a frothing madman.

Disappointed by the weakness of mortals Kasarox distractedly snapped the man's neck and left him to rot. Carefully he made his way up the narrow streets, avoiding all contact as he crept along. Soon he found himself gazing out at the end of the bridge, searching for guards. He saw that the bridge was unguarded and determined the loyalists had all hared off to fight the Red Angel. Sloppy of them, but he could not count on it to last long; he would have to be quick and careful if he were to reach his goal.

Kasarox waited until he was certain that the area was clear then dashed towards the looming towers of the suspension bridge, ducking into its shadow. He vaulted a railing and scaled a rickety ladder, gritting his teeth as it creaked alarmingly under his weight. Then he leapt to the ferrocrete surface of the bridge and he was at his goal. Kasarox knew time was against him, so he ran up the length of the bridge, keeping low as he checked the piles of bodies.

There were mortal corpses beyond counting and a few blue-clad Space Marines, normally he would stop and gloat over such a deserved death but today he had no time. He ignored the loyalist corpses and began turning over others clad in gore-red ceramite, his kin. His teeth drew back in anger as he saw familiar faces on the bodies, comrades he had known for centuries. Then he turned over another body and hissed as he saw it was Talo'kar, left cold in the dust. Kasarox's anger burned hot at the sight of the Butcher laid low and he renewed his vow to make the loyalist worms pay, but for now he had an objective to reach.

The next body he turned over was Raruma's but to his complete shock the Mocker groaned aloud, "What hit me?"

Kasarox hurriedly slammed his hand over the possessed Marine's mouth and spat, "Shut up, we're in great danger."

Raruma waved him off and sat up, great rents in his plate closing with a slurping noise as his Neverborn restored his body. Raruma shook his head and asked, "What happened to your arm?"

Kasarox whispered, "No time to explain, help me search these bodies."

To his credit Raruma obeyed without question, centuries of war letting him process the task without futile questions. The pair swiftly searched the piles of bodies and were surprised to find a few survivors, only a few mind. By Kasarox's guess barely one in twenty of the Crooked Path were alive. Among them he saw Burronox, his Terminator plate looking like he had been hit with a piledriver and Festerlax who barely looked any better. There was Ulreanor, missing a leg and Hehzr, angrily ripping the weapon from his twin's cold dead hand. There were a few dozen survivors in total, more than Kasarox had expected but none were the one he sought.

Kasarox bit his lip in frustration and hissed, "Where's Abulaz?"

"That incompetent buffoon?! "Raruma started in surprise, "Don't tell that after this debacle you still seek his approval?"

"No," Kasarox growled back, "I seek his Teleport Homer; he is the only one the Cruenta Caeda will respond to."

Raruma blinked and then hastily returned to his search. Kasarox helped, suppressing an itch between his shoulders at the idea that the loyalists should return. After an eternity Raruma waved the crowd over and called, "Here, I've found his body."

Kasarox dashed over and called, "Quickly, rip out his vox."

"I'll do more than that," Raruma growled, "I'm taking his head as a trophy…"

Before he could even complete his sentence Abulaz's hand shot out and smashed into his face, knocking him away. Everybody gasped and shrank back as Abulaz's eyes opened and he snarled, "Touch me and die."

Everybody froze at the sight and Kasarox did not know how this would play out. Would the Word Bearer's resentment and anger overpower their instinctive deference? Did Abulaz have the power to fight back if they decided to make a move?

It seemed the Dark Apostle had similar thoughts for he sat up and dark shadows swirled around him, power emanating from his form. Kasarox instantly recognised that despite everything Abulaz still had power at his fingertips and in their current state Kasarox did not favour himself in a fight. Reluctantly Kasarox bent his head and said, "Mighty lord, we rejoice at your survival."

Abulaz accusingly stared at the survivors until they too bowed their heads and then snapped, "Tell me the worst."

Kasarox tried to look submissive as he said, "Our armies are broken, the Daemon is banished. We only live because the corpse-worshippers ran off to confront the Red Angel, but they will return soon to finish us off. We must withdraw to our ship while we can."

"You don't give me orders," Abulaz barked but then conceded, "Yet the situation does not favour us, gather round close, I will save us with a teleport extraction."

Kasarox buried his scorn at the Dark Apostle's posturing but now was not the time. Abulaz still had power and knowledge, while Kasarox didn't understand what the Dark Apostle was capable of, he needed more information before making his move. So he huddled close and waited for the burst of light that would take them away. As the Word Bearers crammed together Kasarox glanced over the bridge's parapet and saw the loyalist scum gathering at the embankment, among them a Captain with a ridiculous red cloak. Recognition flared in Kasarox's soul and he instantly marked that one out as the cur who had taken his arm. He fixed his gaze upon the wretch and seared the sight into his memory. There would be a reckoning, he swore, no matter how long it took or what paths he trod he would not forget this insult.

Then the crackle of Teleport energies itched over him and he fixed his gaze on Abulaz's back. First things first, Kasarox told himself, one insult at a time, Abulaz would have to be dealt with. Then there was a burst of light and the world disappeared as he was whisked away to the stars.


	33. Chapter 33

**Cincere Tempestas Chapter 33**

By the embankment of the river Toran stood, his torn and sparking armour matched by his internal damage. His enhanced physiology was piecing him back together and his chest burned hot where wounds he did not remember taking slowly closed up. Toran had his helm off, to survey the battlefield with his own eyes. Astartes bodies of both types were strewn everywhere, blue and steel forms scattered in all directions. Apothecary Memnos was collecting the gene-seed of the Storm Heralds and Elikos that of the Ashen Knights. Between the fight upon the bridge and the Bloodthirster's rampage he estimated Third Company was barely above half-strength.

Yet the battle would live long in the Chapter's histories. Banishing a Bloodthirster was a feat few could boast of and those present would have their names recorded for all time. Despite the losses, spirits were high and Novak was exclaiming, "Did you see the way those Repulsors charged down the river?!"

Jediah agreed, "Tactically very useful, terrain has just become irrelevant."

"I still don't like them," Persion interjected, "But did you see those Hellblasters in action… We have got to get some of those!"

Furion shook his head sighing, "Perhaps in time, but for now, we should be concentrating on our duties."

His words were punctuated by the distant retort of Bolt pistols, carrying over the ruined buildings. Toran suppressed a grimace, for that had been a bitter outcome. He had entertained hopes that with the Daemon gone the victims of the Ragefire would recover, but that had proved to be pure fantasy. The madness could not be excised, any mortal touched by the Ragefire was condemned forever. So the bulk of the Astartes were rooting out the last of the infected and putting them down, it was in many ways a mercy.

It seemed Arvael knew what Toran was thinking for the Librarian remarked, "Waste no tears on the lost, this was inevitable. The taint of the Warp has touched this place and even if the mortals had recovered, we would still have had to execute them regardless."

Toran lowered his head and said, "I know but it is hard, we fought to save these people not kill them."

Furion leaned over and said, "Better that than losing the whole planet. The Inquisition has finally arrived in orbit, with the Guard reinforcements"

"Late as usual," Novak muttered.

Furion ignored him and continued, "They are preparing a purge, we need to show them that the threat is eradicated before the first Inquisitor sets foot on the planet, else they will enact the Exterminatus."

Toran was distracted by the sight of Lorath and Orath wandering by, arguing over who had earned the most glory. Then he asked, "What of the Chaos Cruiser?"

"Fled at top speed," Persion answered, "They didn't want to tangle with a Navy squadron, first sensible thing the enemy did in this whole bloody war."

Toran sighed, but there was little he could have done to prevent that. He shook off his malaise and said, "Come on, we can't put this off any longer."

With that he led them towards the bridge, where crowds of PDF troops were clearing away the bodies of the slain. The Astartes and Primaris were being treated with due reverence, the Traitors and infected were thrown onto flaming pyres and left to burn. As they walked Furion eyed the troopers and muttered, "These men have seen too much…"

Jediah grimly said, "The Inquisition will think much same, they will insist that the PDF submit to inspection."

Everybody knew what that meant, these troops had fought against Chaos but they had seen that which was forbidden and that was something the Imperium would not tolerate. If they were lucky an Inquisitor might judge them to be of some use and ship them out to fight in endless wars until they died in glory, if not they would be promptly shot. It sat ill with Toran but there was nothing to be done, his Chapter's teachings were clear that mercy had limits.

Soon they saw their destination, Lord-Marshall Achilles, Chaplain Ulysses and First-Sheriff Karsa, having a robust discussion. The Primaris Marines were glaring fiercely, even though the old woman was determinedly standing up to them. Toran strode up and said, "Why are you still here?"

Karsa saw him coming and turned saying, "At last, tell these fools to get out of my way."

Toran raised an eyebrow and asked, "Why?"

Karsa explained, "My soldiers have a duty to complete, we need to search for survivors."

Toran drew in a sad breath and said, "There are none."

"But some may have avoided being infected," Karsa exclaimed.

"No, they did not," Toran repeated firmly, "The taint is too extreme, we can't risk it surviving."

Karsa looked like she would protest but then lowered her head and said, "I thought to leave that all behind me on Cadia, but I do understand. Chaos has claimed the eastern city, nothing can be allowed to remain."

Toran nodded in agreement then asked, "Is the evacuation of the western city complete?"

Karsa replied sadly, "Everybody who was willing to flee is gone but some refused. People are hiding in basements and tenements all over the place."

"Then they have made their choice," Toran grimly stated, "Pull your soldiers out immediately. As soon as we clear this area the entire city will be levelled from orbit, both east and west, not one brick will be left upon another. Then we will sow the ground with Atonomic materials and toxic waste, hard radiation will keep prying eyes away."

"All the knowledge of the centuries will be lost," Arvael mourned, "But what other choice do we have?"

"We sacrifice a city but we save a world," Furion stated, "Take solace in that."

Karsa nodded but Ulysses glared and said, "Not so hasty, there is a vexing issue to address before we start congratulating ourselves."

Toran was confused but then he saw a pair of Apothecaries approach, Elikos and Memnos. Between them was a haggard and grey-haired man, jerking and snapping wildly but unable to escape his captors. Toran peered closer and saw it was Lord-Provost Orvius and he was lost in a state of madness. Toran heard Karsa gasp, "Orvius! Damn fool, he must have snuck over the river an attempt to save some dusty books."

Toran looked upon the Lord-Provost and saw no trace of sanity, no hint of rational thought. The man was tainted beyond recovery and there was no helping him. Toran felt Achilles and Ulysses' eyes upon him and knew they were waiting to see what he did, but he refused to let their judgement guide his choice. He reached out with both hands and gripped Orvius' head and then in one sharp move snapped the neck, killing the man instantly.

As the body was dragged away Achilles stated, "Again you surprise me, I did not believe you had such grit. We misjudged the Storm Heralds, you are strong and righteous. It seems this world is in safe hands; our presence is no longer required."

Toran turned in surprise and said, "You're relinquishing your claim to this world?"

Achilles explained, "These people seemed important to you and we have places to be. My orders were to secure passage for the Indomitus Crusade to Segmentum Tempestus. Our other hosts are regrouping and we shall press onwards, but I shall leave a Century in the area to keep this route open."

Toran bowed deeply in respect and said, "I am honoured, the Storm Heralds would be proud to count you as allies."

Yet Achilles demurred, "I find that doubtful, our Chapters are too divergent to ever be true allies, yet we can respect your warrior spirit. We may never be friends, but I consider you to be comrades-in-arms."

"And we admire your strength and determination," Toran replied, "If all Primaris are like you then surely the Emperor must look upon your order with pride."

Achilles paused for a moment then said, "You are a strange breed and ill-luck seems to dog your footsteps but I shall send word to the court of the Primarch that the Storm Heralds hearts are beyond reproach. None should question your practices, your zeal or your dedication to the God-Emperor."

Toran wasn't sure what that implied but responded, "I shall see to it your Chapter is entered into our records as most worthy warriors."

At this point Ulysses spoke up, "One more thing, among the Ashen Knights there is a tradition: when two warriors have saved each others lives they must exchange gifts. So Novak, I gift this unto you."

With that Ulysses flicked his wrist out, sending something flying through the air towards the champion's head. Novak caught it deftly in one hand as it flew towards his face. He opened his palm to study the object and then gasped in surprise. It was a golden cross, square in shape, with a large ruby at its centre that was cracked right down the middle: a Rosarius. While the weight and raw materials would make it valuable; to a Space Marine it was far more precious. Broken and non-functional as it was a Rosarius remained a sacred trust, no Chaplain would part with one lightly. Novak snapped his head up and spluttered, "I'm honoured, but-"

"You have a fine head on your shoulders," the Ashen Knight cut him off, a slight smile playing on his lips, "Your Chaplain likely tells you to talk less, I, however, advise you to ignore that and be unpredictable. All know you to be skilled with a blade but nobody anticipates your intelligence, your cunning is your greatest weapon. Keep talking and keep your foes underestimating you."

Novak looked at the broken relic with awe and then said, "Alas that I have no gift to equal this boon. All I have is to offer this humble blade, it is no hallowed relic but it is straight and true."

With that Novak presented his spare combat knife to the Chaplain. Ulysses held it up before his eyes and looked along its length saying, "You do me more honour than you know, this blade has tasted the blood of a Daemon. This is a princely gift; I shall keep it with me always."

Achilles looked at the blade and read out the inscription upon its length, "We are the Emperor's Storm, We are His wrath. What does that signify?"

Toran explained, "It is our Chapter's maxim, the expression of our hearts and a reminder of our home."

Ulysses looked up and said, "I have read of your world in our briefings… is it true that it is covered in water?"

Toran smiled now and elaborated, "Mostly ocean, but there is enough land to support our people."

"I have never seen an ocean," Ulysses confessed, "I would very much like to behold such a thing."

"Come back someday and we will show you," Novak interjected, "I also want a rematch with you, now I know about that Furnace of yours."

Ulysses broke a rare grin and said, "Don't wish too hard, I have your measure now, you will not find me unprepared again."

Novak snorted, "You don't know half my tricks and I won't hold back next time."

Everybody chuckled then Elikos spoke up to say, "What are you all being so serious for? We defeated a Greater Deamon; this is a day to celebrate!"

Achilles concurred, "Indeed, we should not dawdle, we must return to our ship. Ceremonies of triumph await."

Toran accepted this and said, "Fare thee well and may we meet again someday."

"If the God-Emperor wills it," Ulysses answered.

Then Novak quipped, "Just don't go getting yourself killed before then, I want you alive for that rematch."

Ulysses smirked, "I look forward to it, if the sky does not fall upon your heads first."

With that the Ashen Knights strode off, gathering their squads as they prepared to leave. Karsa too took her leave saying, "I had better go, I have a hell of a lot of work to do before the Inquisition arrives."

The Storm Heralds watched the Primaris go and Persion asked, "Do you think we will see them again?"

"Who knows what the future will bring," Furion answered, "If the Emperor is willing, we may meet someday."

Novak looked at the broken Crozius in his hand and said, "They are warriors of fine calibre, I wish them well in the wars to come."

"Speaking of which," Toran stated, "We need to be moving on, wars rage across the galaxy and the Storm Heralds cannot afford to be idle." With that they set off, headed to their gunships and ready to meet whatever challenges the future would bring.

 _The Storm Heralds will return in Ignis in Vacui_

 _*Authors note*_

 _Many thanks go out to Mr Aaron Johnstone for letting me write for his custom Chapter. Any readers who wish to enjoy more Ashen Knight stories are encouraged to go the Facebook page 'The Inquisitors Archives' and read more of Ulysses' adventures._


	34. Chapter 34

_Presenting a Teaser for an upcoming story: Indomitus Bellum_

 **Somewhere, Somewhen**

Points of light glowed beyond the viewport, shining steadily in the airless vacuum of space. Most of those were the light of distant stars, unchanged since mankind had first gazed up into the night sky. Yet for the first time their light was marred by something else. A vast ribbon of purple and red that cut across the galaxy, the Cicatrix Maledictum, that disgusting wound cut into the fabric of reality, allowing the festering gangrene that was Chaos free reign. Somehow it was fundamentally wrong, stirring feelings of revulsion at an instinctive level. It was also defying physics, this deep into Segmentum Solar it should take thousands of years for its foul glow to become visible, but then Chaos had never cared much for physics.

Primaris Lieutenant Smyth looked upon the Great Rift and sighed, the knowledge of what the Imperium faced causing him concern. Smyth was one of the new breed of transhumans, forged and trained upon Mars by that strange polymath Belisarius Cawl. He was taller than a conventional Astartes with short black hair and his features were those of one born of Old Albia. Yet his face was smooth and clean-shaven, lacking scars or honour studs. Though chronologically he was ten thousand years old he had spent almost all of it in stasis, save for being dragged out for the occasional experiment, he had missed all of Imperial history.

Only recently had Smyth been released from his stasis tube and inducted into the Unnumbered Sons, the Primarch's personal army. He had expected a swift and glorious victory for the Indomitus Crusade but the fighting had been hard and slow-going, the scope of the threat set before them greater than he had ever expected. Smyth heard a tread behind him and a voice said, "You shouldn't look too long at it, they say it will drive you mad."

Smyth half-turned and saw his comrade Intercessor Sergeant Yones standing there, in Mark X armour that matched his own. Yones was like him in every way save his hair was blond, not dark and his features hinted at the bloodlines of the Terrawatt clan. Smyth and Yones had shared the shocking discovery upon awakening that their nations were long extinct, subsumed into the heaving, slum-ridden conurbation that Terra had become. A most unnerving revelation but it had paled in comparison to what had happened to the rest of the galaxy. All the pair had left was their brotherhood among the Unnumbered Sons; it was the only place they could call home.

Smyth returned his gaze to the viewport and remarked, "The shipwrights are doing good work."

Yones joined him saying, "It is good to see her back in Imperial hands."

Both of them stared out into the void, where a vast ship was being worked over. She was simply immense, utterly eclipsing their own Strike Cruiser, the Omnissiah's Bounty. The vessel they beheld was superior in every way, a leviathan from another age, a vessel that could not be replicated in this lesser age, the Macragge's Honour. The Primarch's flagship was being worked over by fleets of repair skiffs, Forge Tenders and swarms of Tech-Priests in vacuum suits. All working diligently to scrub clean the stains upon her hull and repair the deep wounds she had suffered.

Smyth looked upon the Glorianna class warship and remarked, "That was one hell of a fight, the Red Corsairs were no push-overs."

Yones nodded, "I hear Huron slipped away, that wretched Error404 just doesn't know how to die."

Smyth heartily agreed, for the battle to reclaim the Ultramarian flagship from its captors had been most bloody. He drew in a breath and said, "We lost a lot of Primaris breaking their fleets, a victory yes, but a costly one. Was it really worth it for just one ship?"

Yones mused upon it and remarked, "I don't think this was about cost-reward analyses. The Primarch wanted his ship back, that was the Binaric truth of it."

Smyth looked upon the immense ship and stated, "They say he's over there, overseeing the upgrades personally."

Yones leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, "Illicit data squirts on the Noosphere hint there's secret work going on, installing some mysterious devices of Cawl's own design."

Smyth with a glare and reprimanded him, "Haven't I told you not to listen to rumours and gossip?"

Yones grinned and said, "I keep my ears open, besides don't you want to know what secrets Guilliman is hiding?"

"No," Smyth rebuked firmly, "It's classified for a reason and we should not pry. Respect data protocols and trust that if we need to know, then we will be told."

Yones shook his head and said, "You are as straight and unbending as an Adamantium rod."

"I take that as a compliment," Smyth replied, "Now was there a reason you came here?"

Yones sighed loudly and explained, "Captain Kieva has summoned us."

"Error-shunt-abort, why didn't you say that first?" Smyth snapped and then straightened up before hastening away. Together the pair hurried into the bowels of their Strike Cruiser, passing various compartments and Primaris Marines about their duties. Soon they reached a secure section of the ship, permanently guarded by a squad of Intercessors. Smyth promptly marched past them and made his way inside, finding a barracks area. If was just like a dozen others in the ship, save that this one housed most unusual guests.

Smyth screeched to a halt and then saluted as he saw the form of Captain Kieva awaiting him. The Captain was wearing his doughty Gravis armour, the thickest armour available to Primaris Marines, and he looked irate and impatient. Smyth knew that his Captain was unhappy, he always was. Kieva wanted glory and respect but he had been relegated to a second-line unit. His command had seen little genuine fighting and no glory, the assault on the Red Corsairs was the first major operation they had been involved in.

Yet it was his companion that troubled Smyth the most, a head shorter than the Primaris and clad in gaudy armour. This one was covered in decorative skulls, morbid embellishments and had a golden Rosarius upon his breast. His name was Megaro and he was a fugitive from some mongrel Chapter in the middle of nowhere. Smyth had found Megaro and a handful of compatriots a couple of years ago in some derelict and the lost Chaplain had immediately spun a tale of woe, proclaiming that his Chapter had turned renegade.

Smyth didn't like Megaro one jot; he held onto grudges like they were sacred writ and had a zealot's look in his eye. Kieva however had lapped it up; the chance to humiliate a renegade Chapter would boost his status and vault him to the heights of glory. Sadly putting that into practice had proven most vexing.

Kieva looked upon his lieutenant and said, "Finally, your sloth is most unbecoming."

Smyth was irritated but then saw a data-slate in Kieva's gauntlet and a suspicion formed as to the source of the Captain's bad mood. He drew in a breath and said, "Sir, is there a problem?"

Kieva waved the slate and said, "The report from the Ashen Knights, they have sent back word that they contacted the Storm Heralds."

Yones piped up, "Not good news I take it?"

Kieva growled, "Worse, it applauds the Storm Heralds most profusely. I told them to find some evidence of Heresy but that glitch Achilles is practically gushing with praises for them, especially some Captain named Toran."

Suddenly Megaro growled, "Toran, of course who else would it be?"

Smyth's curiosity was peaked and he asked, "Who?"

Megaro growled, "He's a pompous glory-hog, who's been a problem for years. Smug, self-satisfied and arrogant, surely he must be at the heart of this Heresy. "

Smyth commented, "Well Achilles seems to be impressed by him."

Megaro snarled, "He's always had a knack for making allies, we could never figure how he did it. I'm not fooled though, he has to be the source of this rebellion, I'd stake my life on it."

Kieva sighed, "We needed Achilles to send us something damning that we could take to the Primarch, but this is worse than useless. I can't convince Guilliman to act with this."

Megaro remarked thoughtfully, "Maybe if I could speak to him personally…"

"Not a chance," Kieva retorted, "The Adeptus Custodes and the Victrix Guard have both rejected your plea for an audience, you will never lay eyes upon him."

"So what do we do?" asked Smyth.

Kieva had a cunning glint in his eye as he said, "We shall seek allies of our own."

Smyth was surprised to hear a soft tread behind him and he turned to see a most strange sight. A pair of guards were escorting another old Astartes into the barracks but this was the strangest Marine Smyth had ever laid eyes upon. His legs were a dark, gravely brown that slowly faded to black as it rose to meet the torso, while the left arm and pauldron were a smoky grey shade. His Chapter badge was a leaping feline predator in profile, with claws and fangs exposed and his exposed face was pale skinned, with short black hair and dark eyes. Furthermore his armour was covered in adornments and strange knotwork patterns and he had an open book pinned on one shoulder plate, with many scrolls hung from his belt. His right arm was the deepest blue and he carried a thick staff, topped with a ram's skull while over his pale head arched a psychic hood.

Smyth was not given to the rank superstition but something about this Marine made him wary as the stranger bowed low and said, "Light of the Dawn be upon you."

"Greetings," Kieva stated, "You are Imix K'awiil?"

This Imix looked haughty as he corrected, "I am Shade-Seer Imix K'awiil, of the Smoke Jaguars."

Kieva accepted this and remarked, "Indeed, your Chapter has made significant contributions to Indomitus Crusade."

Imix replied modestly, "The Great One has found our skills somewhat useful."

"And now we need your help again with a vexing matter," Kieva stated.

Imix eyes narrowed and he stated, "Your agent did not prove so useful as you wished. Now you seek our aid to destroy the Storm Heralds."

"How did you know that?!" Yones gasped in shock.

Imix snorted in amusement and replied, "I have my ways."

Yones and Kieva looked startled but Smyth was far from impressed, there were numerous ways such information could leak out. It didn't take a Psyker's abilities to know what they were planning. Smyth cut in before anyone else recovered and said, "Then you will aid us?"

Imix looked up at the taller Primaris and stated frankly, "The Smoke Jaguars, help you to destroy the Storm Heralds… this will not come to pass."

At this point Megaro stepped in to say, "But you must know what treachery is occurring, how can you let such Heresy fester?"

Imix fixed him with a glare and spat, "You twist words like an adder does its tail. I know who rules the Storm Heralds now and their hearts are pure, it is yours that festers with bile."

Kieva looked flabbergasted as he spluttered, "But with you by our side…"

Imix cut him off, "I have given my answer and it is no. I can smell your spirit, you crave glory and respect but you do not temper that with modesty, it will lead you down the darkest of paths."

Smyth stepped in and said, "We do not mean offence and we would not be your enemy but can you not lend us any support at all?"

Imix stared at the Lieutenant for long moments, making him very uncomfortable and then uttered, "Your lips speak truly and your hearts are as light as a feather. A shame you are not the Captain here."

Kieva bristled at that but Imix continued, "I will give you this advice: you have two men telling you different things. The word of a man who knows not the meaning of deceit, speaks of courage and honour, the man by your side whispers hatred and bile. Only one of these men is worth listening to, you must choose which."

With that Imix turned and swept out leaving the gathering dumbfounded. A long moment passed and then Yones said, "So… what do we do now?"

Smyth drew in a breath to centre himself and then proposed, "Perhaps it is time to reconsider our course."

But Megaro spat back, "Let Heretics run free? Never!"

"He's right," Kieva asserted, "We need to redouble our efforts, we must find proof of the Storm Herald's treachery and make sure that they are destroyed once and for all."


	35. Chapter 35

Hello, for those who have been asking Aaron Johnstone has now created a Fanfiction user account. His stories can be found by searching this site for writer named Ajohnstone1


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